


Darkness and Overzealous Dandies

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Series: Sweet like Blood, Sugar [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (but not worth an E rating I felt), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Friendship, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, Romance, Trans Montparnasse, Vampire Sex, Vampires, but much more Romantic than Undead and Urban Society, this is less fluffy than Fangs and Flower Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: “Your teeth. Did you have them done like that for real?” Montparnasse slants his head, looking at their mouth. “Very expensive, I hear."Jehan reminds themself to breathe and offer him what they hope is a bashful smile. “Yeah…” they say. “Oh the folly of youth, right?”“I don’t know,” Montparnasse hums. He’s still earnestly studying their face, with a degree of actual attention Jehan is not sure anyone has ever paid them in a bar. “You actually pull it off. It’s kinda cute.”The undead and the living are not meant to mingle freely, the vampire community makes sure of that. Or, they ought to...[The last part of the Sweet like Blood, Sugar series, but can be read separately from the rest of the series.]
Relationships: Claquesous & Fauntleroy (Les Misérables), Claquesous/Gueulemer (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac & Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Marius Pontmercy & Éponine Thénardier, Montparnasse & Éponine Thénardier, Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Series: Sweet like Blood, Sugar [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/889059
Comments: 24
Kudos: 65





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> General content warnings:
> 
> -Mention of weed and cigarettes.  
> -Blood, biting and mild sexual content.  
> -Anxious feelings and concerns about fully informed consent.  
> -No on-screen violence, but references to past violence.  
> -There will be references to drawing blood with needles or nicking yourself with a knife, but nothing described in detail.  
> -Mention of drinking animal blood, but no on screen animal death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will work best if you have read the other parts in the series, but it works on its own if you take the ships and friendships in the tags as previously established.

_Amsterdam, 2017_

The nights are far too short in summer as far as Jehan is concerned. It’s torture to have to stay inside while the city is bursting with life and their garden is finally in bloom.

People do look at them strangely when they run around the still-crowded streets in their coat and gloves, but at least their large sunhat and shades are justified. If they leave around sunset, they get to spend dusk in their garden and that is more than worth the slight sting in their eyes to Jehan.

By now there is no sunlight left to bother them and Jehan can tend to their flowers free of their extra layers of protective clothing.

“Oh, you are early,” they murmur admiringly, carefully touching the first blooms of the tuberose. The little flowers are white, most of the night-blooming flowers Jehan managed to get their hands on are. Only the primroses and the mirabilis give a splash of colour. “You smell lovely,” they praise. “I wish I could have gotten some jasmine to keep you company…”

The allotment is lovely and quiet. There are a few people who are in a habit of staying late, all human. Jehan knows them all by name now, but they aren’t in today.

Jehan goes from plant to plant, addressing them all by their Latin names by way of practice as well as a show of affection.

“Jehan Prouvaire in their natural habitat.”

“R!” Jehan turns around with a startled smile. “You’re sneaky.”

“You turned off your phone,” Grantaire says apologetically, lingering at their little garden gate.

“I was talking to the flowers,” Jehan makes excuse. They walk up to him happily, pulling him onto the narrow garden path. “I thought this was an Enjolras night still,” they say and they grin coaxingly. “Have you come to read to me?”

Sure enough, Grantaire unearths a battered paperback from one of his pockets and Jehan makes a gleeful sound while he sits down on the chest of gardening tools.

Usually they are the one that reads to Grantaire, but lately he’s taken to reading to them while they garden and Jehan considers this an _excellent_ development.

***

Closing up at the coffee shop always takes twice as long whenever Fauntleroy stops by to “pick Sous up from work”, but Montparnasse has learned that it’s worth it. It is laughably easy to get on Claquesous’ nerves when little Faunt is there, all home-dyed curls and gleaming fangs they no longer try to hide. More than that, watching how Sous watches Faunt and Gueul together is pretty much non-stop entertainment. It’s been a damn _year_ , and Claquesous still looks like he’s about to quietly lose it every time Gueul grins at Fauntleroy or pleasantly pushes them around. One of these days Montparnasse will have to ask him if he does it on purpose. For now watching his best friends make an asses of themselves is enough compensation for getting home late. Besides, Fauntleroy likes helping him clean up, in return for gossip about the day, so even though it takes longer, it’s actually less work. Hardly a downside left.

“Can we go see a movie this Sunday?” Fauntleroy coaxes. “You’re not working this Monday…”

Claquesous looks up from where he’s putting on his jacket. “Told you, the latest showings start at half past ten, sun’s barely under then.”

“So I’ll wear a hat,” Faunt rolls their eyes. “I want to see Atomic Blonde!”

Montparnasse listens to the two of them bicker, his gaze slowly moving to Gueulemer, who is doing a bad job of seeming annoyed at the noise and is still hanging around here despite having the opportunity to go to bed ages ago. Sap.

Most of the lights have been turned down already, but there’s more than enough light to study his own reflection in the mirror of one of the display cases. A movie would do. But he’d really welcome an _actual_ distraction.

***

Jehan leans indulgently on Grantaire’s arm as they walk, a basket of freshly cut herbs swinging on the other. They’re just to make the house smell nice. Speaking of smells.

They push up on their toes to hide their face against Grantaire’s neck for a moment, making him stumble in his previously steady steps.

“You smell recently fed,” they tease. “Recently fed on boyfriend.”

Grantaire gives them a retaliatory poke in the ribs and Jehan laughs, squirming away from him for a moment before pulling him close again and resuming their walk home.

“You’re gonna make _me_ hungry,” they scold, with nothing but warmth in their voice. Grantaire’s drinking patterns are healthier than they’ve been in years and they’re so happy for him. Him and Enjolras both.

“There’s still time to go out,” Grantaire hums. “Not too close to morning.”

“Mm, I can wait,” Jehan says. They’d much rather spend a night in with R. It’s becoming a little rarer for them to just have him all to themself. And that’s okay, it’s good that their lives are no longer focussed only on each other, but they _do_ really like to have him all to themself.

“Anyway,” they smile. “The day after tomorrow is the first Saturday of the month. That’ll be more than worth the wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don’t feel like reading the previous parts of this series, here’s what you need to know:
> 
> Les Amis run the Amsterdam Blood-dependents Community, which offers support, social control and to a degree companionship to the vampires and wards/allies (humans who drink blood from a specific vampire and thereby considerably slow their aging and usually are willingly fed on) of Amsterdam.
> 
> The triumvirate live together, Jehan and Grantaire live together, and Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet live nearby.
> 
> Babet runs a coffee shop (the Dutch kind that sells weed as well as coffee and pastries). Montparnasse, Claquesous and Gueulemer work for her. Gueulemer lives above the shop, and Claquesous has a small apartment he shares with Fauntleroy, at walking distance of the shop, Montparnasse has an attic studio a little further away.
> 
> Want to know more? Here's a [dramatis personae](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764703/chapters/51376507).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: vampire sex with some vaguely described hand stuff.

Hunting in familiar territory is a new and wonderful thing. Jehan smiles at the security guard by the door when they duck into the narrow hallway leading into the club and they get a friendly nod back. That could never have happened in their transient days. Never hunt in the same place twice. That’s what they were taught and that’s what they stuck to for nearly fifty years.

But Amsterdam is their home now. And Courfeyrac was right, the human memory is very forgiving when it comes to the hazy details of a one-night stand. Jehan smiles as they walk into the cheerful noise of live music. The Echo is one of their favourite places, especially on the Pink Saturdays. A group of loud humans all sporting various pride colours comes bursting out of the door, letting a wave of heat and music wash over Jehan and they have to make an effort not to grin and expose their teeth. They’ve been looking forward to this all month.

*

Montparnasse is still deliberating whether tonight is a night for buying drinks or for getting others to buy them for him. Usually he makes up his mind about that before he goes out, but it’s a restless sort of night. He’s _bored_. That’s the only reason he’s here. He’s not so used to going out on his own anymore. Pretty annoying, that. This place isn’t right for distracting him either, too much focussed on music, not enough on dancing. It’s too laid-back, not enough tension in the air. He prefers the club around the corner, but what he _wants_ right now, to drive this sludgy dissatisfaction from his body, is a hook-up. And that will be easier here.

Not that there’s anyone _interesting_ in here tonight. Attractive, yes. Available, certainly. But no one—

Montparnasse is a great believer in coincidence. He’ll take a fluke over intentional dramatic irony any day. But even he is thrown for a moment when the redhead appears at the end of the room.

It is the way they move that catches his eye, rather than anything else. They don’t touch anyone, don’t go near anyone, stay away from the dance floor, but they walk as if they’re already dancing. Their face is infuriatingly difficult to see between their loose flowing hair and the flickering lights, but Montparnasse has spent too many nights scanning crowds not to notice when someone else is doing it. The redhead moves towards the bar, but their attention isn’t there at all.

They have barely reached the bar, when they turn in his direction. Dark eyes meet his and Montparnasse feels validated in all his assumptions. They are _beautiful_.

He looks at them a moment too long, but they look right back. Their head slants to the left and a silky curtain of hair slips down their shoulder. Florals. They’re dressed head to toe in florals.

Montparnasse blinks. He’s not too far away from them now and there’s something nearly familiar about their face. Not the large eyes or the curved nose… Their mouth. A jolt runs down Montparnasse’s spine and his heart skips an eager beat. Their mouth looks like _Fauntleroy’s_. There’s something about the way their lips close that is decidedly the same. There goes his heart again. Surely it _can’t_ be. That would be too… He can’t possibly be this lucky.

*

They’ve always had a weakness for dark hair and light eyes. Jehan watches the handsome stranger with a faint regret they are no longer able to blush. The way he’s looking at them makes them _want_ to blush. And they’d look pretty with a blush right now. They can see there are pins on the lapel of his jacket, but they can’t quite see the colours from this far. One is in the shape of a skull…

Jehan deliberately looks away, casting their eyes down. If he doesn’t come to them, they’ll go to him. But…they’re guessing he’ll come. They look up again.

*

The flutter of their lashes is not quite demure, it’s something else. Montparnasse grins to himself as much as at them. Whatever is going to happen, it will at last make for a memorable night. He crosses over straight towards them, never quite looking away from their face. If he has the chance to dance with a vampire tonight, he’s not letting them out of his sight.

His eyes dart to the button on their vest before he closes the last bit of distance. Nonbinary colours.

The pretty stranger smiles slightly at him when he joins them and they are really the least vampire-looking person he has _ever_ seen. Then again…Fauntleroy.

Vampire or not, they are his for the night. Montparnasse leans against the bar, close enough to see their face is absolutely strewn with freckles.

“Hey,” he says pleasantly.

The two large brown eyes are fixed on him attentively. “Hi.”

He grins. “Dankje voor de uitnodiging.”

The redhead’s expression flickers with faint embarrassment. “My Dutch is very bad still.”

Oh. Montparnasse slants his head. “American?” he asks curiously, smoothly switching languages.

“Yes,” they say, almost grateful. “You’re good at accents!”

“Varied acquaintance,” he grins.

They smile, leaning towards him just a little, and Montparnasse is certain that he saw something like Faun’s fangs just now when they spoke. It’s that he knows what to look for though…

“My name’s Montparnasse.” He resists the urge to hold out his hand, have an excuse to touch their skin.

“Montparnasse,” they echo and they pronounce it correctly the first try. Odd, their accent just now hadn’t had a hint of French in it.

“That’s right,” he nods. “And yours?”

Playful lights dance in their eyes. “You can call me whatever you want.”

Oh they’re _stunning_. “That’s a very generous offer.” He purses his lips, looking at them as if he has to think about it. “I couldn’t just give you any name though…”

They look charmed, but they don’t quite smile wide enough. “Are you French?” they ask.

“Half,” Montparnasse hums. “What about you, Vogeltje? Your pronunciation is very good.”

“Vogeltje?” they echo, mangling the word like he knew they would, and he treats them to a low laugh.

“Certainly better than your Dutch,” he teases. He repeats: “Vo-gel-tje. That’s what you remind me of, a beautiful little bird.”

Their dark eyes are very bright and there’s just a spark of defiance in them. “Vogeltje,” they repeat, but their ‘g’ is still far too English.

He chuckles and their narrow their eyes.

“Vo-geltje,” they sing-song and as their lips part in deliberate enunciation there is an undeniable flash of honest-to-god fangs.

Montparnasse has no idea if a vampire would be able to hear the quickened beating of his heart. But the music is loud and his Vogeltje doesn’t seem suspicious of him at all. “Oh you’re quick,” he praises them and one corner of their mouth quirks up in a smirk.

“You also can call me Jehan if you like.”

Triumph coils in Montparnasse’s chest. “Alright, _Jehan_.”

*

Maybe they shouldn’t have told him their name, but, they _wanted_ to. They wanted to hear him pronounce it. He got it right in one go. Montparnasse is exceptionally pretty. The skull pinned to his leather jacket, in the colours of the trans flag, is the only splash of colour on him. That and the green of his eyes. They can see they are green even in this obfuscating lighting. Everything else about him is rich black on pale skin and Jehan wants to brush their fingers past his cheekbones, trail them down his neck…

“Tell me, Jehan,” Montparnasse says, the sound of his voice gently fixing their full attention again. “Are they real?”

Jehan gives him a quizzical look. “They?”

“Your teeth.” He grins, baring his own, and gesturing to his canines.

Jehan stares, frozen. Montparnasse’s easy, charming expression hasn’t changed but Jehan can feel something tighten around their throat. Their—

“Did you have them done like that for real, I mean.” Montparnasse slants his head, looking at their mouth. “Very expensive, I hear.”

Jehan reminds themself to breathe and offer him what they hope is a bashful smile. “Yeah…” they say. “Oh the folly of youth, right?”

“I don’t know,” Montparnasse hums. He’s still earnestly studying their face, with a degree of actual attention Jehan is not sure anyone has ever paid them in a bar. “You actually pull it off. It’s kinda cute.”

Their next smile is involuntary and just a little too wide. But, what does it matter? He has seen their teeth. He’s not the first one to think they are implants either, but somehow it never occurred to them that that might be an excuse. A reasonable explanation.

Montparnasse is smiling at them and Jehan wants to kiss him. Not in the dark like they always do, but somewhere with soft light falling on both their faces. They want to _smile_ at him and press their lips to his and feel him smile back.

They lean back against the bar and glance towards the door, letting their eyes dart back to Montparnasse as soon as they know he’s seen them look.

*

They want to leave with him, he can tell, and it’s tempting, but… He pushes away from the bar, closer towards them, and moves his head in the direction of the dance floor. “Want to dance?”

He wants to dance with the pretty vampire. Out here in the open.

Jehan draws back, just a fraction, but clearly nervous. “I…um.”

Montparnasse smiles. They’re afraid of him touching them, of him finding out what they are. If they only knew.

“Come on,” he grins. “I know you want to.” And he grabs their hand, gently pulling them towards the dance floor.

Jehan’s eyes flashed uncertainly when he grabbed their hand and yes, their fingers are cold. But there is nothing directly suspicious about that, is there, Montparnasse thinks gleefully. As soon as he starts dancing, he makes sure to let them go and Jehan falls into the rhythm of the music so easily Montparnasse recoils internally at the idea that he might have missed this. They dance beautifully. Red hair swishing, eyes gleaming, and their feet so very light.

Montparnasse watches them until he can’t take it anymore. He reaches out for them and Jehan takes his hand, seemingly without thinking about it. Before they can get second thoughts, Montparnasse pulls them closer and dances nearly against them. He sees Jehan’s lips part in a sigh and they close their eyes for just a moment. They are so pretty. Pale little freckles on their fair skin and those long, dark lashes…

Two slender arms slip around his neck and for a moment Montparnasse forgets himself. Their embrace is cool, a contrast to the heat around him, even to the warmth beating in his own chest, and he can nearly feel their cheek brush against his.

What are _they_ thinking right now? Do they want to bite him? Would they? With all these people surrounding them…

“You’re a good dancer.” Jehan’s voice is barely more than a whisper, their breath ghosting coldly past his neck.

“Partner makes the dance,” he breathes back.

Jehan laughs. A soft, sweet, gorgeous laugh, that Montparnasse can feel rolling down his back like water. Without meaning to, Montparnasse wraps his arms around their waist, and pulls them flush against him. Jehan might have gasped, but it feels more like they stop breathing, for just a second, before moving to the music again.

*

It feels _so_ good to dance. So free. With Montparnasse pressed against them they’re not afraid of being touched by anyone else. And he doesn’t even seem to feel their cold, no matter how hot his skin is against theirs.

Jehan could already smell him from a distance, pressed this close they can smell him on every breath. His blood is so fragrant it drowns out the products in his hair, the faint flowery scent staining his skin, the cologne, his sweat… Jehan prides themself on having varied tastes. And on being able to find beauty in anyone. But they have _never_ come across anyone as entirely appealing as him.

They want to strip him of that black shirt and trace his artery all the way down to his heart. They want to kiss those smirking lips.

The beat breaks into a spinning melody and Jehan dances out of Montparnasse’s grip, spinning on their spot and sharply inhaling the warm air in an attempt to fill themself with scents other than his. They can’t lose themself in him just yet.

When they look back at him Montparnasse is grinning. He looks so alive. So delighted with them, with himself, with the whole of existence. He holds out a hand and they take it, letting themself be spun around and displayed to the room under the coloured lights.

They dance, and dance, until Jehan can hear Montparnasse’s breathing get heavy. The thumping of his heart begins to take precedent over the drone of the beat whenever their fingers brush his wrists or chest. He’s getting tired, sweat glistening on his fair face.

Jehan smiles at him. They even dare to let their lips part just a bit. Cute. He called their fangs cute. He grins back, breathing heavily, and they tip their head towards the door. Raising their eyebrows in a silent question, and pretending to blow out their own breath in overheated exertion.

Montparnasse nods, catches their hand again, and pulls them outside.

Compared to the life and light inside, even Amsterdam’s night seems dark and quiet. Jehan breathes in the night air and leans against the wall, laughing from elation alone. Montparnasse sticks close beside them, one shoulder pressed against the brickwork and his eyes still on them.

Jehan has to force themself to look away, turning their eyes to the dark sky and wishing with all their heart they could see some real stars.

“I haven’t danced like that in forever,” they sigh, revelling in the joy of being entirely truthful for just a moment.

“A crime,” Montparnasse tuts beside them. “But also flattering.” There’s a smirk in his voice. “I’m grateful for the privilege, Vogeltje. Truly.”

Jehan looks at him with a laugh pulling on the corners of their mouth. Montparnasse’s gratefulness sounds like pride dressed up in sweetness. They forget to comment on it when they get to take in how he’s standing there, leaning elegantly against the wall with his leather jacket thrown on unzipped. His hands are suddenly occupied, providing a further distraction. He’s holding a packet of shag and a small container with what looks like hash, but lighter in colour than Jehan remembers it being. He looks at them with his head tilted slightly to the side, one eyebrow half-raised.

“You want some?”

They bite their lip and shake their head and wonder if they should ask him not to smoke. The way he smells…they’re not sure if they could take the taste of him with an added edge like that.

He makes that decision unnecessary, however, because Montparnasse smirks slightly and tucks everything back into his jacket pocket again. “No sweat,” he hums. “Not like we need it tonight.”

Jehan grins – _actually_ grins, there’s no one else around to see – and revels in the way his eyes dart to their fangs and then back up to meet their gaze with a brilliant spark in his eyes. They want him _so_ badly.

“We could get high another way…” They usually phrase it differently, more like an actual offer of giving them something. But since he was the one offering _them_ drugs this time, they don’t really have to do that anymore. They know he’s okay with using.

No matter what exactly they’re offering, however, Montparnasse grins. “Yeah?” he says, moving a little closer still. “Is that another invitation?”

No kissing out in the open. Jehan has always stuck to that one. It’s so hard to know exactly what you are doing with your mouth when it’s pressed against another. And you never know who might be watching. But Montparnasse is leaning into them already and his lips are so warm and so close…

His kiss tastes wonderful. A glorious promise of what the rest of him will taste like. But Jehan has to actively withhold themself from cutting their tongue with the tip of their fangs and warming their kiss with their blood. They can’t do that yet, not here, but they have not kissed a mortal without the heat of their blood on their tongue since, since—

One of Montparnasse’s hands slides into their hair and he kisses them deeper, making their thoughts scatter on the spot. The steadiness of the wall presses against both their shoulders as Montparnasse crowds them up against it and his warmth seems to cling to them from every other side.

When he gently pulls away, just a little, Jehan only barely remembers to take a breath. The air is warm, they are not.

“Cold night,” Montparnasse breathes against their mouth.

“Very,” Jehan agrees senselessly and a moment later Montparnasse kisses them again.

Jehan closes their eyes and gives in just a little. They can taste the life in him already…

The next thing they are genuinely aware of is Montparnasse’s lips murmuring close to their ear.

“…my place is pretty close.”

*

By the time he pulls the door to his studio shut behind the two of them, Montparnasse has room for nothing but eagerness. He and Jehan had needed only very few words to understand each other, and now Montparnasse is sure of them comprehending the whole situation, he can let go of that last bit of vexing necessary caution. He was kind of expecting some information in return. Not about what they are, of course, but about what they will and won’t do. Because from what he has been able to gather from Fauntleroy’s ill-tempered muttering, sex is not exactly something vampire bodies are built for anymore. A crying shame as far as he is concerned, looking at Jehan right now.

They are leaning back against the closed door, looking back at him with brilliant dark eyes.

“What?” Montparnasse grins. “Shy all of a sudden?”

They shake their head, a smile ghosting around their lips and Montparnasse grins wider. He adores people that know how to play. He raises his hand to Jehan’s face and brushes his fingers past their cheek. Their skin is still chilled from the night air. He wonders if he could make them tell him somehow. It seems crude to just ask.

“Still cold, Vogeltje?” he hums, staring into the beautiful black eyes in the pale face.

“Mm,” Jehan sighs. “Warm me up?”

That’s an impossible task worth trying to fulfil.

Montparnasse presses his lips against theirs firmly enough to make them lean their head back against the door and slips his hand under their top. Even there their skin is cold, but so soft. They feel flawless. Jehan opens their mouth and as soon as Montparnasse tastes them he also feels their hands on the collar of his jacket. He retracts his hands, fingers tracing across their stomach, and brings his arms down behind his back to allow them to pull his coat off him.

Jehan kisses him deeper, more roughly. They pull him against them, trapping themselves against the door and Montparnasse leans into them, his hands on their hips. Jehan is soft and sweet and pliant under his touch, but he cannot kiss them without feeling their fangs, cannot feel the cold without knowing exactly what they are, and the thrill of it is hotter than the chill of their skin. He wants more of it.

When he finally breaks out of the kiss to gasp for breath, Jehan has managed to unbutton his vest as well. Oh they’re _eager_. But, Montparnasse notices, they _look_ nearly untouched. Their eyes are darkened with want, yes, but their skin is not flushed, their lips are still pale, not a gasp escapes them.

It’s that, that gives him pause, makes him brush his fingers thoughtfully past their cheek instead of kissing them again. They look up at him quietly, their lips still parted, and he lets his hand slide down to their neck. God that floral shirt. He needs to get them out of that.

“Clearly…” Maybe he shouldn’t say a thing. Maybe he should just kiss them again and let them believe he never knew. “Clearly I need to try a little harder to get you worked up.”

Something soft flickers on Jehan’s face and their hands slide up to let their arms circle his waist. “Do I look so collected?” they murmur. “Every time you kiss me it feels like I might faint.”

He smiles. It sounds like they genuinely mean it. He hums softly, keeping his hips pressed to theirs. _All_ he can feel in their body is an inclination to be near him. And _look_ at them. They’re not going to hurt him.

“I don’t take it personally,” he says with a teasing smile. “Much as I’d love to get your heart racing, I don’t think that’s on the table, is it…?”

Jehan tenses, in all the wrong ways this time, and Montparnasse is having second thoughts about keeping them pressed against the door like this. It’s almost like he’s trying to genuinely trap them. He carefully caresses their face again, putting just a little more distance between their bodies without quite letting them go. He doesn’t want Jehan to think he’s rejecting them either. Absolutely not. Their eyes are fixed on him with a very different kind of intensity now. He is certain that if their heart _could_ beat, it would be pounding now.

“You…” Their sweet voice is laced with sudden stress and it’s making something unpleasant pang in Montparnasse’s chest. Maybe he really should have just played dumb, this is uncomfortable.

“I knew from the moment I got a good look at your face,” he says soothingly. He’s almost inclined to add something about not wanting to hurt them, but surely they can tell that’s not what he’s after. They might be insulted. He would be.

“You knew,” Jehan repeats, their hands pressed flat against the door now instead of touching him. “So then, why—?”

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows. “I mean, look at you…” He tries to soften his expression enough to make them do the same. “I was gone the moment I set eyes on you.”

Slowly something like fascination begins to bleed through the apprehension on their face. “You could tell…and that didn’t change your mind?”

Confident that they won’t bolt, he lets go of them now, gently, running his hand down their shoulder. “Why would it?” He meets their eyes again. “You’re gorgeous.”

Jehan’s head slants, their expression puzzled, but no longer tense like it was a moment ago. “ _How_ did you know?” they ask.

Montparnasse knows he cannot betray Fauntleroy’s secret. Claquesous would kill him for a start. Jehan may have walked straight out of his dreams and into a previously mind-numbing evening, but they’re not worth getting strangled over.

“I’ve met your kind before,” he says. “I work near the Wallen, they’re not too dark of a secret there.” At least that’s what Babet says. _He_ has never been able to see any evidence of it, much to his chagrin.

Jehan looks at him in wonder. “…I have heard about that,” they say tentatively. “But…” They push away from the wall, making him step away also, and circle around him with soft, cautious steps. “If that’s all you know us as…why would you bring me to your home?”

Montparnasse looks back at them. “Because I wanted to,” he answers honestly. “Because _you_ wanted _me_.” If they need a bit of reassurance, he can give that. He needs to recapture the wild enjoyment of earlier tonight. “Because of how you danced…” He lowers his voice just a little. “Because I’m curious, and you’re beautiful.”

“ _Curious_.” There is amusement in the word and there is that gorgeous smile again. A touch incredulous right now, but no less attractive. “That’s why you want someone like me?”

“Not someone, you.” That is a lie. But it’s a pretty one. A flattering one. And it’s almost true. In this moment he wants no one else, breathing or otherwise. And Jehan is moving towards him, no longer slightly drawing back. They still want him too.

“I know what you want,” he says, straightening his spine in a subtle movement showing off his neck. “And I’m game.” He risks a grin. “If you still are.”

For a second Jehan looks at him like they’re thinking about something else entirely. Then they softly bite their lip. “And what do you want?” they ask.

He grins wider. “Anything you feel like giving. What were you _planning_ on doing with me?”

There’s a flicker of doubt, maybe embarrassment, on their face, but it fades when they look at him again. They’re so beautiful. If they’d only allow him to kiss them again everything would be easy.

Montparnasse softens his grin a touch. “I mean it, what do you usually do?”

Jehan hums, very gently taking another step towards him again. “I’m very good at kisses…”

Montparnasse lets out a breathy laugh. “I’ll say.”

The beginnings of a grin flash around their mouth. “I don’t usually let people kiss me so quickly,” they say. “Normally I don’t let people kiss me until we’re alone. Really alone.” They step a little closer still, making a gratified thrill hum in Montparnasse’s chest. “And when I do kiss them, I give them a little of _me_ , before taking what I need from them.”

Right. Blood. Montparnasse would be thinking deeper about the implications of that, but to be quite honest, he doesn’t really care at the moment. The look in Jehan’s eyes has a bit of that eagerness from before again and he doesn’t need his thoughts to get in the way right now.

“Is that all you want?” he asks.

Jehan raises an eyebrow. “Did it feel like that is all I wanted?”

He grins. No it didn’t. He looks at them, waiting, hoping they will let go of whatever doubts they are clearly still harbouring. Because if they don’t, he fucked up a once in a lifetime chance. He can tell that much.

Jehan’s gaze drops for a moment, before darting back to his face. “We may be known for having a one-track mind, but, there’s other stuff I like.”

It hasn’t escaped his notice they haven’t actually said the word “vampire” yet, but then again, neither has he. Montparnasse reaches out, cautiously, and when they don’t draw back, he hooks two fingers around the loops of their floral trousers. He takes a slow step back.

Jehan follows, eyes fixed on him brilliantly.

“Then tell me, Jehan,” he coaxes. “What is it that you like?” If this is what they both want, he’s not going to dawdle any longer.

“The taste of your mouth,” they murmur, following with small steps as he walks backwards towards the bed.

Montparnasse grins. “What else?” he demands, pulling them past the tiny kitchen area and letting go a step later when they no longer need to be led.

Their eyes dart to the bed eagerly before returning to his face. “I like dark hair,” they smile, closing the gap between them and touching his face with a cool hand. “And cocky smirks…”

Such pretty, empty answers. Montparnasse likes _this_. He likes _them_.

He leans down to kiss them, but suddenly they move first, pressing a cold kiss against his neck. Shivers run down Montparnasse’s spine and he closes his arms around Jehan to keep them in place.

“And you?” Jehan whispers against his skin. “What do you like?”

Jehan raises their head and Montparnasse looks at them.

He slides a hand into their hair. “Anything I’m not supposed to have.”

Their responding smile is perfection. He kisses it off their lips.

Whatever uncertainty Jehan might feel, they seem to be willing to put it aside in favour of stripping him of most of his clothes and falling into bed with him. They hesitate at his binder, making an effort to properly meet his eyes.

“Do you mind?” they ask. “I mean, if you want to keep it on, I understand. I’d just rather not have anything restricting your breathing if I’m gonna—”

“It’s fine,” he says, moving to take it off himself. “Not a big deal.”

“Rad,” Jehan grins with relief and Montparnasse is about to raise an eyebrow at that, but between the struggle with the garment and the cool fingers on his skin trying to help, he doesn’t have any attention left to question Jehan’s vocabulary. Besides, he’s too busy trying to return them the favour. He manages to get their shirt off and their trousers unbuttoned, but that’s as far as he gets before he loses himself in their increasingly heated kisses.

Nothing he does is able to warm Jehan up. Not his kisses, not his pulling on their hair, not his hands running down their body. But Montparnasse doesn’t care. Jehan’s fingers may be cold but their touches are hot. Their coos and moans guide him clearly from one spot to the next, teaching him what they like, and when he ends up on his back with Jehan sitting on top of him, he’s willing to do or say _anything_ to get them to kiss him again. Their hair has become dishevelled, wild locks fluttering down to their freckled shoulders, and fuck they’re beautiful.

Their bare chest doesn’t rise or fall with quickened breathing, and their cheeks are still pale, but their lips are wet as they smile down at him. “Was it painful?” Jehan coos, tracing the ink reaching down across his chest from his collarbones.

“Beauty is pain,” Montparnasse smirks.

Jehan laughs. Their laugh is brilliant and free. “Oh,” they breathe. “How you must hurt.”

Their hair tumbles forward as they lean over him and one of their hands reaches down between his legs, hesitating at the edge of his boxers. Their fingers are not so cold against his skin now, they have been grabbing at his back and pressed against his stomach enough to have stolen some of his warmth. Jehan’s eyes meet his with a coy, questioning look.

“ _Yes_ —” he breathes and then his breath catches in his throat, feeling their fingers dip between his thighs.

Montparnasse closes his eyes, his head swimming. Sweet lips on his skin, clever fingers between his legs. Involuntary groans twist in his chest and he opens his eyes, only to look straight into Jehan’s. They are watching him and their smile is wide enough to make their fangs gleam in the dim light. Montparnasse tangles his fingers into their increasingly dishevelled hair and they hum appreciatively. Their head tips forward, their lips nearly touching his.

“Do you want a proper kiss?” Their voice is nearly a purr.

He tugs on their hair by way of an answer, making Jehan kiss him hungrily on his mouth. Their teasing fingers move and he keens, but he kisses them hard enough to make them moan back. Then suddenly they taste different. Sharper, wilder. Montparnasse shudders against them and dings his fingers into the back of their neck. Something hot and dazed washes over him and he lets go of Jehan’s hair. They raise their head and Montparnasse lets out a shuddering breath. Jehan’s fingers are still teasing and their movements are gentle, but suddenly everything feels stronger. There are sparks dancing on his skin, there is fire _flooding_ his mind. It’s Jehan’s blood. Jehan’s blood is liquid fire.

“Fuck-” he gulps, closing his eyes.

Jehan laughs above him and then their lips brush against his again and they whisper hotly. “Told you I’d get you high.”

Montparnasse eyes blink open again. He wants to hear them say his name in that voice. He wants to hear them moan it. “If we’re back on promises,” he growls. “I have some catching up to do.” And he grabs at Jehan’s hips.

Jehan drops their head down to his neck and slides their fingers up, making his mind stutter and his hands falter.

“But I wasn’t done yet,” they purr by his ear and Montparnasse feels their wet lips on his skin.

“Are you in a hurry then?” he murmurs, fighting to stay coherent in defiance of all Jehan’s efforts. He feels _drunk_. “We have all night, Vogeltje.”

Jehan giggles. “You promise?”

Before he can answer, their fingers graze delicately past a weak spot and the warmth glowing in his throat seems to wash down his body all the way to where they are touching him. He gasps.

“It’s not a—” God his head is floating. “It’s not an amnesiac, right?” He can taste the metallic spice of their blood in his mouth now. Almost jarringly mundane and familiar behind the waves of heat and ecstasy it carries with it.

“What, _no_.” Jehan raises their head with a start, retracting their hand fully from between his legs and that is absolutely not what Montparnasse wants.

He draws them back in, pressing warms lips to their cool neck. “Just asking,” he murmurs, lacing his lack of concern as thickly into his voice as he can.

Jehan makes a strange, sighing sound and lays his head back down to look up and meet their eye.

“Glad it’s not though.” He brings his mouth closer to theirs again. “I want to remember how fucking good this feels.”

Jehan’s mouth opens against his and they get lost in another kiss. There’s that warmth again, contrasted with Jehan’s fingers digging into his waist and into the back of his neck, that dizzying euphoria seeping into him.

Montparnasse throws his head back with a gasp when they break out of the kiss. “Fuck—”

Jehan hums melodically and through the increasingly heavy haze Montparnasse feels them kiss up his neck.

“It dulls the pain,” they murmur close to his ear. “Heals your body…”

“Floods my brain,” he supplies with a sigh. A needy sound escapes him when Jehan’s lips fasten on his earlobe for a moment. He feels like he’s had a particularly good dose of E, but drowsier, and yet more…focussed. Focussed on Jehan. Like all of him, his mind and body in perfect agreement, are able to latch onto them.

Jehan runs their hand down his chest and his whole body purrs. They sigh in response, leaning in to kiss his collarbones and Montparnasse feels so warm that the coolness of their lips is soft and pleasant. He swallows.

“You…you taste…” He makes a weak, overwhelmed noise.

“Not as good as you’re going to taste,” Jehan finishes for him and the sound of their _hunger_ , the note of wild desire in such a sweet, gentle voice, is doing something to him.

“How do you know?” he grins, drunk on affectionate blood and vanity.

Jehan murmurs softly, kissing their way up to his neck and inhaling deeply. “You smell _gorgeous_.”

Montparnasse feels his heart quicken and Jehan whines in response. As if they can hear it, feel it perhaps.

“Go on then,” Montparnasse breathes. He wants to feel those fangs against his neck. Wants to know what it will do to him, what it will do to Jehan when they bite him. Taste him. There is suddenly no stronger desire present in his entire being.

“You sure?” Even dark with want their voice is kind.

“Please—”

It’s barely a groan, but Jehan’s responds at once. Their mouth opens adoringly against the curve of his neck and Montparnasse squeezes his eyes shut to let himself drown in their pleasure.

*

For a moment or two Jehan thinks, or hopes, that Montparnasse will be able to stay awake, but after a few glorious moments of his heart racing and stuttering sounds of bliss spilling from his lips, he drifts off. Humans always do.

It takes his silence, his slackening in their embrace, to remind Jehan to stop drinking though. He tastes so— He tastes— They pull away, lips closing, and swallowing hard not to spill a drop of him. Montparnasse tastes like climbing out of windows before dawn, like silent observation and stolen secrets. Like perfumed air and expensive leather. Like a single moment of harmony among a cacophony of screaming dissent.

Jehan kisses his neck, cleans his skin, and licks their lips with the knowledge that the warmth they feel inside themself right now is real.

They reach over, pulling the covers on top of Montparnasse’s sleeping form. He looks so soft like this. Nothing left of the hard, glittering edges from before.

Watching people sleep feels unfair, inappropriate. But Jehan can never quite bring themself to leave right away. This time it’s worse than ever. So they linger, dutifully closing their eyes and lying down beside him with their arm wrapped around Montparnasse’s warm body. They lie there and listen to his breathing. To the reassuringly strong and steady beat of his heart. They didn’t overdo it. He’s fine. Just overwhelmed by the blood and the bite, like they always are.

Jehan sighs involuntarily. They should go.

Gently, careful not to disturb him, they slip away from Montparnasse. Out of his bed.

“You were perfect,” they murmur, smiling. “Thank you.” And they slip out of the room.

They make their way out of his apartment and out of the building without dallying, but, they do look back. It’s an unassuming house, but looking up at Montparnasse’s attic window they’re sure they’d probably be able to find it again. They shouldn’t.

Never go to the same place twice. That used to be a hard rule. Not anymore. But never the same person. Never ever. That’s how you get found out.

But this isn’t the same, is it? Montparnasse knows what they are. He’ll remember.

A short flutter of fear thrills in Jehan’s chest as they linger in the dark street. Perhaps they should have talked to him in his sleep, muddled his memory with their Presence just in case.

But they never use Presence on their lovers. They don’t want to. Jehan sighs. Tonight was flawless. Montparnasse was flawless. They won’t tarnish it now. They gave him what he wanted. And he them. What a beautiful thing.

And with a smile on their red lips, Jehan sets off for home.

*

Some hours later, the sky outside his window already growing slightly pale with the approaching morning, Montparnasse opens his eyes. For as long as it takes for his memory to catch up he marvels at how comfortable he is. At how completely free of any strain or tension his body is, how gloriously warm he feels. And then he remembers.

He sits up. Not a trace of Jehan to be found.

Montparnasse lets himself fall back onto the pillow with a silent laugh. He fell _asleep_. Dammit.

Jehan’s image is still fresh in his mind and he suddenly wishes he had asked them more questions. Because he feels _fantastic_ and it must be hours later. He can’t bring himself to search for his phone to check the time but it has to be near dawn. Will this feeling last? Because if so…

Maybe he can ask Claquesous. Right after he’s told him what an absolute dick he’s been for hiding the gorgeous truth of all this from him. He rolls onto his side, a content noise purring in his chest. One way or the other, he’ll find out soon enough. But for now, he basks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long I have been waiting for these two to meet. Thanks for being here <3
> 
> Dutch 101:
> 
> When a club advertises a "Pink Evening" (Roze avond) they mean it's a party for the queer community.  
> "Dankje voor de uitnodiging." = "Thanks for the invitation."  
> "Vogeltje" obviously means "little bird" and I /may/ have been waiting my entire Les Mis fanfic career for a Dutch AU where Parnasse can use it.  
> The "Wallen" are Amsterdam's red light district.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cw: anxiousness and distress, mention of injury, implied child maltreatment.

Jehan is not hungry. Not at all. They drank their fill. A little more than usual even. They know what they are feeling right now is not hunger. It’s hardly been two weeks. This isn’t hunger, they just want more.

They can remember Montparnasse’s taste _so_ clearly. And…no one has ever _asked_ them to bite them. Those few murmured words keep replaying in their head. He wanted them. He knew and he wanted them anyway. Jehan did consider going out again, even if it would be very ahead of schedule. Just to cleanse their palate. But something about that idea seems nearly distasteful to them. Whoever they’d be able to find. They wouldn’t taste a good as Montparnasse. That is dangerous thinking, they know, but it’s true. And moreover, they wouldn’t ask them. Jehan knows that they couldn’t even give them the opportunity to ask. Because they wouldn’t know.

Perhaps… They wouldn’t go back to his house, of course. That would be absolutely unthinkable. Knowledge of someone’s home does not equal an invitation. They have absolutely no right. But they _could_ go back to the club. Maybe he goes there more often. Maybe he’ll be there for the next Pink Saturday. That wouldn’t be an intrusion…

Jehan runs a distracted hand through their hair. They probably shouldn’t. They _know_ they shouldn’t. Never the same person twice. Don’t get mixed up. They glance around the room, their lovely apartment. Littered with Grantaire’s instruments and their stationary and both their books.

Wouldn’t it fit, though? They’re settled now. Their life is safe and permanent. If Montparnasse lives in Amsterdam… If he’d be willing…

“I know that, Enj, but we can deal with it.”

Jehan looks up as soon as they hear Grantaire’s tense tone of voice, concern dispelling their thoughts. That sounds distressing. ABC business probably. They sit upright as he walks into the living room with his phone to his ear. His curls are standing on end in the way they do when he’s been pulling on them. That’s never a good sign.

“No,” he says. “We’ll be right there. Bye.” Grantaire turns to face them as soon as he lowers the phone, his eyes bright with worry. “Courfeyrac turned someone.”

Jehan’s stomach drops. “ _What_.”

Grantaire shifts his weight tensely from foot to foot. “We have to go. They asked for us.”

“Yes of course!” Jehan scrambles to stuff their pockets with necessities and a minute later they’re following R out the door.

“Was it Elske?” they ask, their voiced hushed. “Courf mentioned that she nearly overdrank once.” No, they try to remind themself, Courfeyrac overfed her. The responsibility cannot lie with the mortal.

Grantaire’s hand closes around their arm, pulling them close and hurrying them along at the same time. “No,” he mutters. “It’s not one of his mistresses. It’s that boy Marius.”

“Wh—” Jehan keeps walking but their mind rebels at the thought. “R- How?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says miserably. “Enj just said it was an accident.”

“Of _course_ it was an accident,” Jehan breathes. “Oh Courf.”

“They’re both safe,” Grantaire tries to reassure them. “They’re all at the big house. Enj just wondered if we might- Since you and I had sort of had a similar- You’re the only one of us that’s ever turned anymore.”

“Yes, but you _knew_ ,” Jehan sputters, horror swirling in their chest. As far as he knows, Courfeyrac hasn’t told Marius a thing. He just bumped into him at some sort of seminar at the university and befriended him. He didn’t do _anything_ to him. Courfeyrac just _likes_ him. Jehan gives Grantaire’s arm and anxious squeeze. “Did Marius know? Anything at all?”

“No,” Grantaire grimaces. “And he’s not dealing with it terribly well.”

“That poor boy,” Jehan says in dismay. Being turned without _any_ prior knowledge, they can’t even imagine what that must be like. They give Grantaire an anxious glance. “What made him…?”

“Traffic accident,” Grantaire answers curtly.

Jehan winces. They don’t quite manage swallow the mournful sound that escapes their throat. “And Courf was there?”

“Yup,” Grantaire sighs. “Enjolras isn’t dealing particularly well with it either.”

“He’s not angry at Courf, is he?” Jehan asks in dismay.

Grantaire gives them a conflicted look and Jehan feels a jolt of defensiveness.

“Enjolras has never been in that position,” they say feelingly. “It- It’s not a rational choice.”

Jehan hangs their head. It took them years to stop blaming themself for turning Grantaire, even if they had never been able to actually _regret_ it. They love Grantaire too much for that and he’s always made it very clear he has never been sorry for anything that happened to him, only regretting that _they_ felt bad about it.

Right now he’s squeezing their hand with the same concern. “That may be why Enj particularly asked me to bring you,” he murmurs.

When they look at him, for a moment all Jehan can see is the human he once was. And then they remember their fear, the overwhelming fear that they would lose him. The fear that drove him to give him their blood, too much of their blood, just to save him.

They decide to save their other questions for later. All they want right now is to be with Courfeyrac. Dear Courfeyrac who is so fond of Marius and who would never have done this if he had thought there was any other way. Just like them.

Grantaire’s step quickens in time with theirs and they both hurry. Jehan bounces on their feet as R opens the door and pushes past him as soon as they can get inside.

They walk straight into Enjolras and Courfeyrac, who are standing in the middle of the hallway, Enjolras’ with both hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders.

“Courf, I am _not_ blaming you.” Enjolras sounds pleading, almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Courfeyrac looks more upset than Jehan has ever seen him. In this moment, there is nothing that betrays how much older he is than his friends.

“But you’re right,” he says, voice trembling. “I should have just warded him, taken him to a hospital—”

Jehan has to push through the temporarily paralysis that has taken hold of their legs. It’s like hearing their own thoughts. “That’s what I _meant_ to do with R,” they speak up, making both heads turn their way. Jehan swallows. “You did the best you could, Courf.”

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac breathes with breaking voice and he rushes to their side.

Jehan wraps their arms around him and holds him tight, looking at Enjolras over his shoulder with solemn eyes. He looks young too, in this moment, young and unhappy. But grateful to see them, they can tell that much.

Jehan hugs Courfeyrac a little closer and glances pleadingly at Grantaire. Courf needs them right now, they cannot take care of everybody. But Grantaire is already moving past them with a gentle touch to their back. He pulls Enjolras to the side a bit, cradling his hands in his and speaking to him in hushed, soothing tones.

Gratefully, Jehan focusses on Courfeyrac again.

“Was he very badly hurt?” they ask quietly. “Did he turn out strong?” They remember their own panic as soon as they saw that they went too far, that Grantaire was turning. All they could think of then was to make him drink enough.

“I believe so,” Courfeyrac says, pulling away enough to look at them and squeezing their arm gratefully. “Strong enough. I hope.”

Jehan touches a hand to his cheek. “It’ll be okay, Courf,” they promise. “It can turn into a good thing, eventually.”

Courfeyrac glances at Grantaire, whose hands are now resting on Enjolras’ shoulders, trying to get him to relax. “Yeah,” Courf says with a weak smile. “I mean…I didn’t have the best start either.”

“And you turned out brilliant,” Jehan murmurs, leaning their forehead against his.

Courfeyrac huffs out a laugh. “Well, that goes without saying.” He pulls them back into a hug and Jehan hugs him back with all the strength of a person that knows neither participant in this embrace needs to breathe.

When they let go, Enjolras clears his throat. He looks calmer, with Grantaire by his side, but still rather unhappy.

“I’m sorry I upset you further,” he says, low but urgent.

Courfeyrac wipes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m just on edge, mon cher.”

Enjolras’ eyes dart gratefully to Jehan and they try to smile as much comfort at him as they can manage. Before they can say anything, however, Combeferre emerges from the direction of the kitchen. Even with the plastic lid still on Jehan can smell the container he’s carrying is filled with pigs’ blood.

“There we go,” he says, nodding a greeting to them in the same movement. “Food for the fledgling.”

“You’re a darling,” Courfeyrac sighs. He looks unhappily at Jehan. “I offered to take him to Karin to feed, but he said he’d rather starve.”

Combeferre hums. “Perhaps taking the poor boy to one of your mistresses the same night you’ve turned him is a bit much,” he says. Clearly he is taking all this much better than the others.

Jehan doesn’t mean to look at Enjolras, but their eyes meet anyway. They share their feelings on wards. They’re not very favourable. Vampires like Musichetta, who chose to enter a fully mutual, equal relationship with mortals are rare. For obvious reasons. And to be a ward in any other circumstance always carries a nasty aftertaste of dependence. Courfeyrac is the single exception to the rule for Jehan. They do believe he genuinely loves every single one of his mistresses and always looks out for their welfare first. But he’s the only vampire they’ve ever met that treated wards in such a way.

“Drinking harvested blood is probably easier for him than having to bite for his dinner,” they say encouragingly. “Where is he?”

“In the living room, with Bossuet,” Courfeyrac sighs.

Good, at least he’s not alone.

“Come,” Combeferre says. “Whether he wants to or not, he should feed, and quickly.”

There are too many of them to make a calm entrance into the living room, but Jehan sticks to Courfeyrac’s side anyway. Grantaire and Enjolras are the ones that hang back to give the others space.

On the couch, next to Bossuet, who looks like he came straight from the clinic, sits a boy. Jehan really can’t call him anything more than a boy. He looks younger than they do, younger than Enj does. There’s a pang in their heart when he looks up, eyes wide and startled. He has the sickly grey complexion on someone that’s very near starving and his clothes don’t seem to fit him well.

It takes Jehan a moment to realise that they’re Enjolras’.

“Marius,” Courfeyrac says gently. “This is my friend Jehan.”

The anxious eyes meet theirs and Jehan smiles. Like they would smile at a human, their lips carefully closed.

“Are you-” Marius stammers, much more of a French accent to his English than either Courf or Enjolras. “Are you also a-”

“Yes,” Jehan says, opening their mouth just enough to show him their fangs. “I am.”

“They’re the one that turned Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. “I told you that, remember? They turned him to save his l— him.”

Marius draws a shuddering breath and for a moment it looks like he wants to say something, but then his eyes suddenly dart to Combeferre and he stares at the container with blood.

“What’s that,” he says, his voice barely audible, but even as he asks, he’s already involuntarily leaning forward.

He looks so hungry Jehan can nearly feel it coming off him like fog.

“This,” Combeferre says helpfully, “is pigs' blood.” He walks to the couch to sit down on Marius’ other side.

“I know it’s rough,” Bossuet says, his hand on Marius’ arm. “But you have to drink something, man, even if it’s just a sip.”

Jehan stands back, their arms crossed over their stomach. Bossuet knows full well that as soon as Marius gets one taste of blood he’ll drink the whole lot down. But he’s not lying to the boy, not really. They don’t really have a choice anyway. They must get him to feed.

“I…” Marius makes a movement like he simultaneous wants to reach out to the container on Combeferre’s lap and lean away from it. He ends up swaying into Bossuet, who wraps an arm around him.

“Take it easy.”

“Please, Marius,” Courfeyrac begs. “Just drink something. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

Marius looks up at him and Jehan recognises that look. A helpless sort of trust.

Combeferre holds the still closed container out to Marius and he takes it. He doesn’t open, however. Instead he holds it in his lap and looks back up at Courfeyrac.

“Marius, _please_ —”

“I’ll drink it, Courf,” Marius interrupts. “I will. Whatever you say. But—” His voice catches in his throat. “What am I going to do, Courf? Am- Am I supposed to just call my family and tell them I _died?_ ”

“You didn’t die,” Combeferre interjects. “Your heart stopped. Your brain never lost any of its functions. The body it controls just underwent some material changes. Most notably the fact that its primary and only functioning organ is now the circulatory system, which – of course – no longer circulates as such.”

Marius’ face is not very expressive at the moment, but it doesn’t need to be for Jehan to be able to tell that this is altogether too much for him.

“Ferre,” they protest gently.

“Ah, but, that might be a bit too…technical, at this point in time,” Combeferre corrects himself.

“Don’t worry, dude,” Grantaire says, with laid-back reassurance. “I didn’t get to grips with what happened for months.”

But R never looked like this boy, Jehan thinks. Not so small and scared and like he’s about to cry. They take a cautious step forward.

“About your family,” they say gently, guessing that this holds much more importance for Marius than the semantics of vitality. “If you want to go back, we will help you.”

“No!” Marius blurts out and Jehan leans back in surprise. The fear flaring up in his eyes right now is worse, way worse now, than at any other time.

“I don’t want to go back to my grandfather,” Marius says hastily. “I was so glad he let me come here.” He glances around at them nervously. “I’m not going back. I can’t— Don’t make me.”

“Never!” Courferyac explains and he rushes to kneel before him, grabbing at his hands and completely ignoring the sloshing of the blood in the glass container. “You don’t have to go anywhere,” he says warmly. “You can stay here.”

“Yes, you can,” Enjolras adds firmly. “You’re not alone in this.”

Jehan’s chest warms a little with pride and they can see the emotion in Courfeyrac’s eyes as he glances back at him.

“You promise?” Marius, amazingly, looks a little better already. “I can stay? You won’t make me go back?”

Jehan does not know Marius beyond Courfeyrac’s occasional gushing. They know barely anything about him, apart from him studying languages and apparently being “an absolute darling”. But even so, they already dislike his grandfather immensely.

“ _Yes_ , Marius,” Courfeyrac swears. “As a matter of fact, just you try to get away from me. No one’s going to take you from me now, Marius. I swear.”

And Marius, with a faint, exhausted sort of smile, nods, takes the plastic lid off the container, and drinks.

\---

By the time Marius is sitting in between Courfeyrac and Combeferre – the first with an arm around his shoulder, the second busy trying to explain how the earth’s atmosphere blocks most types of UV light, but not the UVA that vampires may be hypersensitive to – Jehan is beginning to feel like the anxious reflex of feelings has mostly left their body.

“Oh, and smiling,” Courfeyrac says. “You have to be careful smiling. People will see your fangs.”

Jehan involuntarily bites their lip. They haven’t been confronted with this side of unlife in a very long time. Not since a brush with it in the late nineties, back in the states, when they met a girl that had turned her lover into a weakblood by accident. It’s a risk, getting too close to the living. Such a risk.

They think of Montparnasse.

Far too big of a risk.

The warm, comforting shape of Grantaire sidles up to them and Jehan gives him a distracted smile when he wraps an arm around them.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…” Jehan sighs.

Grantaire… Grantaire was like Marius. Well, a little like Marius. And he’s still here beside them. He has never resented them. Right now it looks like Marius won’t resent Courfeyrac either. Jehan silently begs it will stay that way. They lean into Grantaire a little more, secure in the knowledge that after nearly 30 years together, he will know what’s in their head without them having to say it.

“What about Enj?” they ask.

“He’s okay,” Grantaire mutters. “Thinking about how to handle the university.”

“Gosh, yeah.” Jehan lets out a worried hum. “Do they have night classes, you think?”

“Might not have mandatory attendance,” he says. “Kid sure is smart enough to make it without going.”

Jehan looks at Marius, who looks a lot better now he’s fed. They can see why he would have caught Courf’s eye. He’s handsome in a shy, unaware kind of way, and he talks prettily. There’s still a little blood in the left corner of his mouth.

“Hey.” Grantaire calls their attention back to him. “You look a bit—” He makes a vague motion with his hand. “The blood’s not bothering you, is it? You’re not hungry?”

No. Not anymore.

Jehan shakes their head. “I’m good. I fed well last time.”

“Good,” Grantaire nods, pulling them a little closer. “Oh yeah,” he adds with a lopsided grin. “You said so, that it was a good night.”

Jehan smiles in spite of themself. Just a little. “Yeah,” they mutter. “A beautiful night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How rude of the real world to encroach on romance.


	4. Chapter 4

The feeling _does_ last, for a week or two at least. By that time Montparnasse thinks he can feel it starting to grow fainter. Which is a shame, but it’s not exactly _gone_. Yet.

He still hasn’t asked Claquesous about it, and he’s tempted when they both arrive at the shop at the same time. But— Well it’s not like he’s had no opportunity to ask before. Claquesous is just notoriously bad-tempered when it comes to questions about vampires. Fauntleroy can be coaxed into talking about themself, but nothing else really. And Sous never wants to talk about _anything_. Neither does Gueulemer, who knew Sous from before…whatever happened happened. Before he found Faunt, that’s the only way Montparnasse has heard it referred to. In the year and ahalf that Montparnasse has actually known about this vampire thing all he’s been able to learn about it is that Sous was never turned like Faunt was. And, Montparnasse is pretty sure, that what happened to Faunt was an accident.

All that manages to flash through his head once again before he decides not to ask. Instead he makes the usual noise of greeting as Claquesous watches him put aside his bicycle.

“I know it’s a barrel, but you’re still an idiot for not locking it,” Sous observes.

“I told you,” Montparnasse says indifferently, giving the bike a kick before walking past Sous to the door. “It gets taken, I’ll take another one.” He grins. “It’s circular economy.”

Claquesous rolls his eyes, catching the door before it can swing shut and predictably disappearing to the kitchens before he begins his shift.

Montparnasse hangs up his jacket, lisetening to the familiar rumble of Mer’s voice from the kitchen as he takes his place behind the counter. He prefers evening shifts, mornings can get boring. But it does have the advantage of starting before Bizarro is in. Which gives him time to touch up his make-up.

\---

“He does know the all-black isn’t mandatory, right?”

Jehan fights down a smirk and gives Grantaire a scolding push against his shoulder. “Courf says he has always dressed like that,” they say, their voice brought down to a whisper.

The two of them are curled up on the couch in the triumvirate living room, waiting for Enjolras to finish a phone call and watching Courfeyrac and Combeferre teach Marius the lesson of the night.

The way things are, Jehan muses, Marius essentially ended up with two sires. Ferre just knows so much and he’s always eager to pass it on. He does treat Marius as any other student though, and Courfeyrac is clearly taking pains to be as emotionally supportive as he possibly can. Which, considering his baseline, is a rather overwhelming amount. Of course Courfeyrac did not have the best relationship with his Sire. Jehan thoughtfully worries their lip with their front teeth, absentmindedly squeezing R’s arm for a moment. They know they’ve been lucky with their Sire. Alexandre, for all his faults, has always been good to _them_. He stayed with them until they were no longer a youngling, and even then it was their own choice to part ways.

In his latest letter Alexandre even sounded rather emotional about the x year anniversary of their parting. Actually emotional. Not just Alexandre’s usual dramatics.

“So these weakbloods can drink things other than blood?” Marius’ voice drifts over.

“Only coconut juice and water,” Combeferre answers.

“Not enough to survive on,” Courfeyrac says gently, picking up on Marius’ actual meaning. “We all need blood.”

Marius nods, luckily not looking too disappointed.

“It’s not all bad, dude,” R raises his voice with a grin. “You stop missing food after half a decade or so.”

Marius mutters something indistinct and Courf throws a distressed look Jehan’s way. They give Granaire a soft poke in the ribs and he squirms.

“I’m only _partly_ being an ass,” he defends, struggling to catch Jehan’s hands in case they’ll try to attack him again. His expression grows sincere. “Just saying, you _do_ stop missing it. Eventually. And there’s more variation of taste in blood than you’d think.”

“Really?”

Marius’ curiosity takes over from his other feelings and Courf looks relieved.

“Oh yes,” he assures him. “Everyone tastes different.”

“But you don’t drink from, eh, people, right?” Marius asks, looking at Grantaire.

“That’s right,” Grantaire says. “Animal only.” He gives Marius a fanged grin. “I’d be way too powerful if I fed on humans.”

Jehan contents themself with a smirk, but Ferre lets out an amused snort.

“Anyway,” Grantaire says deliberately. “Amsterdam is great for exotic meats and if you know where to look that means rare types of blood too. I can take you on a tasting some time, blow your mind.”

“R is very good at finding interesting traders,” Combeferre admits to Marius. “I have lived here all my life and I was never aware of half the stuff he brings home.”

“That’s your problem, old man,” Grantaire grins. “Been here since the dawn of time and didn’t keep up with modern trends.

“More of that and we won’t let you take out our fledgling,” Courfeyrac threatens, clearly ruffled because of the joke about age.

“What now?” Enjolras interjects form the doorway, just putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Nothing,” Combeferre hums, closing one of his books. “Just Courf threatening to ground you to punish your boyfriend.”

Jehan manages to peek up at Grantaire’s face just in time to see it light up. He still looks like that every time someone refers to either him or Enjolras as each other’s boyfriend. Even after the two years that have passed.

“I’ll take him away then, shall I?” Enjolras says, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

Jehan grins at him when he meets their eyes.

“You guys ready to go?”

“Yes,” Jehan chimes, getting to their feet and dragging Grantaire with them. “Let’s not be late for this music thing.”

Cultural events held at night are the absolute best. Jehan hopes this choir is as good as Enjolras says they are.

\---

“Want to join us for games?”

Montparnasse blinks stupidly at Gueulemer for a moment before the words come through to him, miles away as he was in his thoughts.

“Faunt’s staying home tonight,” Gueul supplies voluntarily, just as Montparnasse’s brain catches up. “It’s time to feed and they still get—” He waves one large hand around in a vague gesture that Montparnasse knows has to express what Sous calls “moods” and what Gueulemer has been trying to help Fauntleroy get rid off ever since they all found out about their…condition.

Fauntleroy doesn’t like drinking blood. Montparnasse would laugh at the irony if it wasn’t so upsetting. According to Sous it has gotten loads better, but they still prefer not to be around people when they’re feeding. Involuntarily he thinks of Jehan and the way they must have slipped out of his apartment as soon as they were done drinking. Surely they can’t feel the same about it, can they?

Gueulemer snaps his fingers. “ _Hallo?_ ”

Montparnasse shakes off his thoughts and makes a decided noise of refusal. “Thanks,” he sniffs. “But I’ll pass on watching you guys mow down dinosaurs for an entire evening, again.”

Gueulemer leans against the doorpost, deliberately taking in Montparnasse’s outfit. “Suppose you’d rather we come with you wand watch you choose someone who’s face to suck on, again.”

Montparnasse snarls. “ _Beter hou je je bek_ , I’m doing you a favour anyway.” He treats Gueulemer to a sneer. “Or are you saying you _wouldn’t_ like to spend an entire evening snuggled up with Sous, pretending to play video games.”

There is a long moment in which Gueulemer tries to decide whether it’s worth it to cross the distance to the counter to reward him for that bit of character analysis with a punch, Montparnasse can tell. But the decision is taken away from Gueulemer when Babet appears behind him and ushers him through the door.

“Don’t bicker,” she tuts. “It’s tiresome.”

“Yes, Babet,” Montparnasse chimes insincerely, while Gueulemer grunts something unintelligible.

Babet’s discerning eyes fix on him attentively and Montparnasse looks back with the same amount of defiance he’d give his own mother.

“Where are you off to then?” she demands. She nods at the dark crimson shirt he just changed into. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, I’m going out,” he says.

Babet raises an eyebrow at him and Montparnasse does resent it a little that he’s dutifully answering her before he even realises it.

“The Echo, probably.” The last word is a rather ineffective addition. Of course it will be the Echo. It has to be. He has to know if they’ll be there again. It’s been a month. Another month, another pink Saturday. If there is any evening he has a chance of seeing them again, it’s tonight.

“Hm,” Babet hums. “Better than your usual haunts.” She turns around with her long ponytail swooping behind her. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

This time around it’s Montparnasse’s doing the grunting.

“Thought you said the Echo was full of casuals,” Claquesous remarks, coming in from his temporary station just outside the front door, seeing off the last batch of customers.

Montparnasse makes sure to give him an indifferent glass. “Yeah, but it will do.”

“Didn’t you go there two weeks ago?” he says, one eyebrow raised as he switches his security jacket for his own.

“Four,” Montparnasse corrects. And then he adds, as if Claquesous would literally be able to read why he’s so keenly aware of how much time has passed: “First Saturday of the month. The Echo is easy when it’s a queer party.”

“Right,” Sous hums, slightly distracted. “So you’re not staying.”

“Nope, you can have the couch all to yourselves.”

Neither Claquesous not Gueulemer acknowledge that remark. It’s something they’ve gotten amazingly good at, not hearing things they don’t want to hear. Instead Sous steals one of the leftover pastries from behind Montparnasse’s counter and moves past Gueulemer towards the back room with the stairs up to the apartment above.

“Happy hunting then,” he calls back.

Montparnasse grins. That’s exactly what he’ll be doing. And with a much more specific idea of what he’s after than he usually has.

\---

It’s not the same as Courfeyrac and Marius. It’s not even the same as them and Grantaire. Jehan is well aware that the fact that they are repeating this to themself is not exactly in their favour, but it _isn’t_ the same. This is a completely different situation and they have _decided_ to act accordingly. It’s a choice. One they are free to make. They do not need to defend themself to anybody.

They have braided their hair tonight and Jehan likes how they look. They always do, but they’re more deliberately dressed up than last time. Maybe Montparnasse won’t even be there. If he’s not, then there’s the end of that. They won’t see him again and they won’t mind it. If he is, well, maybe he won’t smell quite so good this time. Or perhaps he won’t be interested in them a second time around, won’t bother to be so charming. …and if he still does, if he still is, would that be so bad?

Jehan slips into the familiar noise of the club, all the smells of humanity washing over them like a warm bath. They just— They just have to try. If they don’t try to find him again they will never get him out of their head. They _haven’t_ been able to get him out of their head this entire _month_. That has never happened to them before. In fifty years. That has to mean something, right?

Anyway. Never in their entire unlife have they taken too much from anyone. They know that is not an accomplishment quite worth boasting about. Jehan knows that they have never been brought in a position where overdrinking was a risk in the first place. But they feel like it should buy them some leeway right now. There is absolutely no reason why they would be a risk to Montparnasse. None. And the thing is, the one thing that has stuck foremost in their mind about all of this, he _enjoyed_ it. Not like the others enjoy it – Jehan likes to think they take good care of all their partners – but they can never fully explain it all to them. Montparnasse knew everything and enjoyed everything and that was, well… Jehan leans back against one of the dark walls of the crowded room, staring at the movement on the dancefloor with unfocussed eyes. It was as if they could taste the enjoyment in his blood. Stronger than with any other person they’ve ever fed on. They have never had a willing human partner before, not like that. The few times they’ve drunken from Joly and Bossuet really don’t feel the same. Not at all.

Something pulls on their attention and Jehan draws themself up from the tangle of their thoughts. It is impossible to pick out specific scents in a crowd like this, and yet… Their eyes move instinctually past the crowd, every single body moving rhythmically under the coloured lights. For a moment they see nothing but shadows and colours, and then they see him.

Montparnasse is dancing, effortlessly elegant among the thrown of living bodies and beating hearts. Jehan looks at him. He’s overdressed for this place. He was last time too. That suggests that coming her may not be all that usual for him. What if he came back to see them just like they came back for him? He’s wearing red tonight, blood red. Or, perhaps he doesn’t care about what other people wear. Jehan never paid it any mind themself, why should they take it as a sign in him?

They’ve been staring too long without even realising. Montparnasse turns around, suddenly facing their way, and his eyes meet theirs.

-

The jolt of gratified vanity does more for him than the beat of the music and the buzz of the alcohol combined. They came back. Montparnasse lets his face relax into a grin and holds out his hand, never quite falling out of step with the rhythm of the music. Jehan looks at him, big dark eyes fixed on him from across the room, and they genuinely seem to hesitate. But then they move and a moment later they are dancing close against him, cool in his arms compared to the press of warm bodies on either side of him.

“Vogeltje!” he laughs close by their ear, not bothering to hide how pleased he is. “In the mood for dancing again?”

He feels Jehan shift against him and they dip their head down, also bringing their mouth close to his ear to make themself heard. But the movement is so much like that of their kisses, like that of that last movement he remembers them making before they sank their fangs into his neck, that his whole body is suddenly alive with electric memories. Their breath ghosts past his neck and Montparnasse involuntarily pulls them in a little closer.

“I like dancing…” Their voice is just as sweet as he remembers it being, and just as heavy with want.

Montparnasse grins. He’d almost be ashamed of how lucky he is.

-

Jehan can’t think and they don’t want to. This time they have Montparnasse out of his jacket before he has even shut the door behind them. He laughs at their eagerness but happily lets himself be driven into a corner, leaning back against the wall without resisting while they press up against him.

He smells different. Jehan nuzzles against his neck, inhaling deeply. They grin when they feel Montparnasse’s heart speed up, but they’re not distracted from his scent. There’s alcohol this time of course, that wasn’t there last time. Montparnasse has just had enough to be pleasantly worked up, just a little fuzzy around the edges. But that isn’t it.

Jehan tips their head back and smiles widely at Montparnasse, their hips pressed against his to keep him in place and their hands slowly sliding down to find the first button of his shirt. “You’re not wearing your cologne tonight.”

Something like a blush is colouring on his pale cheeks as he looks back at them, but it’s paired with a self-assured smirk. “Thought you might appreciate that.”

So he _did_ go out specifically hoping to meet them again. Jehan bares their fangs as their smile grows. Oh it is an _intoxicating_ thing to be wanted. “I do,” they purr. They push themself up on their toes to bring their face level with his. “Very, very much.”

They press their lips against his and Montparnasse kisses back immediately, all greedy gratification. Jehan eyes flit slyly in the direction of his bed and they grin into the kiss.

“What?” he breathes, his lips leaving theirs to kiss down their jaw as far as he can reach.”

“Black bedsheets,” they grin, pulling him away from the wall.

“What about them?” he hums, trying to catch them by their hips as he follows them.

Jehan bares their fangs at him. “Practical.” They slant their head. “Is it on purpose?”

It takes a second for understanding to click in Montparnasse’s eyes. “No,” he says, exhaling on a laughing breath.

“Well, I like them,” Jehan purrs, allowing themself to be caught.

Montparnasse’s grin is one of the most attractive things about him, and that’s saying something. “Good—”’

He moves quickly, for a human, and Jehan laughs as he drives them back until they can fall backwards onto the matrass. Montparnasse breathes compliment and promises, punctuated by kisses and Jehan closes their eyes, losing themself in the moment until they feel him pull away again. They lift up their eyes to see him sitting on top of them and he looks… Jehan blows out a noisy breath of admiration. Montparnasse is all stark contrast. Like his dark hair and his light eyes, his whole body is painted in vivid differences. His pale skin, the black binder, the red shirt fluttering open, the traces of dark ink wherever his tattoos are visible.

He's _so_ beautiful.

-

Montparnasse grins when Jehan reaches out for him with what seems like involuntary, instinctual movement. He leans over them slowly, taking the time to admire how black their eyes get when their pupils are all dilated like this. A soft, needy sound spills from their lips and he presses his mouth against theirs in an immediate reward.

Cool kisses shouldn’t be this alluring. The feeling of fangs shouldn’t be this enticing. Montparnasse grins and nips at Jehan’s lip until they get the hint. When he gently pulls out of the kiss their dark eyes flutter open to look at him and their fangs drive down into their bottom lip. It looks painful, but Montparnasse can see it’s not. Not to them. Crimson stains Jehan’s pale lips and it’s like his body remembers what their blood did to him last time, because just the smell of it makes something hot twist in his stomach.

He tips forward again and as soon as his lips touch Jehan’s the taste of them overwhelms him. The kiss deepens, they move underneath him, and with sudden strength they roll him over, landing on top of him. Montparnasse gasps, lost in the dizzying, blissful feeling slipping down his throat. It almost seems stronger now that he knows what to expect, knows what is happening. Jehan is kissing him again and the heat dispersing through his body is in perfect, intoxicating contrast to the coolness of their skin against his.

“…fuck—” he gasps, when their kisses leave his mouth and start pressing down his jaw and neck.

They hum adoringly at him.

His body tenses in anticipation when their mouth opens against the curve of his neck, but they don’t bite down. He barely feels the flat of their teeth. They’re being patient.

Of all the hazy, tangled details of their last night together the moment that they actually bit him is the least clear in his memory. As if there was simply too much for him to retain all of it. He wants to remember this time.

This time. Will there be a next time?

“Is the Echo your regular?” The question slipped out before he could help it. He just…his mind is as full of Jehan as his body, but not at all in the usual way.

“I don’t—” Jehan tries to talk and kiss him at the same time. “Don’t really have a regular place.”

No, perhaps they wouldn’t. Not safe, maybe. “It isn’t mine,” he offers freely.

Jehan makes an odd sound and lifts up their head to look at him. “No?” they pant, as if they forgot to breathe before they spoke. For a moment they look torn, troubled, and then they bury their face in the curve of his neck again.

“Soho for drinks. The Nyx for dancing.” He struggles to keep breathing steadily as they let their hands roam down over his body. “Usually.”

He keens when their teeth scrape gently over his pulse and before they can pull away again he slides one hand into their hair, under their now dishevelled braid, trying to urge them to bite. He wants them to. His body and mind are absolutely high on them and he wants to return the favour.

For a moment Jehan’s fangs press down, with enough sudden pressure to add a spike of adrenaline to the rush of feelings already trying to envelop him, but then they pull away with a grunt of self-denial.

“Not while you’re wearing your binder.” They sit up a little further.

The short flash of frustration he feels drowns instantly in the realisation that they’re genuinely concerned for him. “I can breathe fine,” he assures them, breathing deeply in and out to prove his point.

“Yeah, but—” Jehan looks uncertain. “If you fall asleep again…”

Alright, fair enough. He sits up abruptly, closing the distance between them again and unceremoniously shrugs off his shirt. Jehan slides back a little further to give him the room to undress.

“I don’t usually, by the way,” he grunts, throwing the binder aside. “Fall asleep, I mean.”

“Everyone does,” Jehan smiles, suddenly soft and pliant again as he pulls them back in. They nuzzle against his neck. “Something about the strain on the body.”

That sounds like a challenge. “Can you—” He cuts off his own question with a groan as Jehan tips him onto his back again and moves one knee up between his legs.

“Mm?” they hum sweetly, kissing the edge of his jaw.

“Can you do it slower this time?” he breathes, his back is arching underneath them and he must admit it’s worth a lot to feel Jehan’s fingers dance over his bare skin.

Jehan’s head raises just a little. “…bite more slowly?” they ask hesitantly.

“Mmhm.” He tips his head to the side invitingly, but makes sure to let his eyes meet theirs. “I want to _feel_ it.”

Their eyes are black, large and adoring and _hungry_.

“I can try,” they whisper and he has barely heard the last word before their head dips down and their teeth touch to his neck again.

His hands find the small of their back as they move against him and the tension in his body builds every time the pressure on their fangs grows a little. They move slowly, searchingly, until they stop, let out a soft, melodic hum, and bite down.

A sharp flash of what should be pain turns to pleasure before he’s able to truly feel it, filling his body with something wild and eager. And then the pressure lifts off Jehan’s fangs and they _drink_.

\---

The lights of the houseboats are shimmering beautifully in the water of the canal, but Jehan doesn’t appreciate them tonight. They hurry home with Montparnasse’s blood blushing on their cheeks and an odd sort of regret nestled in their chest. They had wanted to stay. So badly. They might have woken him up. Or tried harder to keep him awake.

A soft, involuntary sound escapes them. They have never felt so good and at the same time so conflicted about anything.

They are very grateful that Grantaire is sprawled out on the couch with a movie when they get home. They immediately kick off their shoes and make their way over to join him.

“Hey,” he grins, opening his arms for them to cuddle up against him. A short flash of concern lights up in his eyes when he meets their gaze. “Was tonight a bit much?”

Even when he doesn’t understand them, R understands them. Jehan’s shoulders sag with affectionate relief. They nod, burying against his side and hiding their face into his shirt.

Grantaire doesn’t ask, he just wraps an arm around them and lets them lie against him, his attention divided between them and the movie in case they might want to talk later. Because that’s what he’s like, the best companion they ever could have asked for.

Hidden away in his arms what they did doesn’t feel so very bad. It’s only twice after all. Twice in two months. That isn’t that much. Surely.

It’s fine.

\---

It has been years since Montparnasse was ever woken up by the sounds of the city, but the sun shining into the room always does the trick. He sits up with a start as soon as his eyes blink open, his brain abruptly kicking into gear, but the room is empty.

“Fuck.”

Montparnasse sighs. He feels good, never better. Just as amazing as last time, but Jehan was right. He remembers more this time, but he didn’t manage to stay awake. And he slept even longer this time.

He glances around the room again. There’s not a sign Jehan was ever there. Well, apart from the state of his bed, and his clothes thrown around the room. He gets up to gingerly pick up the new shirt from where it’s ended up in a crumpled pile on the floor. The only times his clothes ever end up in this sort of state is when someone else is involved in their removal. He remembers the way Jehan pulled on his shirt, trying to get him closer and it suddenly seems to him that their scent is clinging to him still.

Not the smell of their blood, their own scent. Something he’s pretty sure he has never been able to remember from any of his other conquests. If Jehan counts as a conquest… Perhaps they don’t, perhaps that’s why he can’t get them out of his head. Because it’s not the vampire thing. Yes, it feels good, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to hold his attention without… Whatever it is Jehan has. What they certainly have is self-control. And a distance he doesn’t seem to be able to preserve right now. Usually he does. That’s what the conquest is all about. Whether he’s the one doing the pursuing or he allows himself to be caught, it’s his conquest. With Jehan it feels different. He doesn’t even know how. Because really, he knows very little about Jehan.

An alarm goes off on his phone, interrupting his thoughts with a shrill reminder. Oh, right. It’s actually one of his rare days off, so Éponine is coming over. Well, that means a shower and tidying the flat enough to at least avoid her smirking questions.

Ponine is a childhood friend of sorts. She knows the guys by now, of course, but she dislikes the coffee shop on principle and Montparnasse is actually quite happy to keep her a bit separate from his other friends. Éponine knows far too much.

She’s the only one that knew him before he left his parents’ home.

She’s also the only one he hangs out at _his_ home with.

Montparnasse has the place looking presentable by the time she starts leaning on his doorbell. Just for that he takes an extra long time making it down the stairs.

“Sorry,” he says languidly, holding the door open. “Didn’t hear you there.”

“I have had a bitch of a week,” she announces, pushing past him without acknowledging any of what he just said. “So we’re binging Gooische Vrouwen.”

Montparnasse watches her stomp up the stairs. “Oké dan,” he hums and closes the door again.

“Don’t even start,” Éponine says decidedly when he catches up behind her, so he doesn’t.

He’s not in the habit of forcing Éponine to confide, that’s her favourite pastime. In any case, she usually talks about what’s bothering her without asking. It just takes a while.

Sure enough, when they’re about three episodes in, and she has a fair amount of sugar in her, she spills:

“Something weird is going on with Marius.”

Montparnasse does a very bad job of hiding his disappointment. He was hoping for something more interesting. “When is there not something weird going on with Marius,” he says, reaching for the packet of cookies Éponine has been monopolising.

“I’m serious.” Ponine chews on the inside of her cheek, pulling her whole face into a dissatisfied grimace.

Montparnasse watches her in silence, eating his cookie and waiting.

“I don’t think he’s going to class anymore,” she says after a while. “He keeps saying we’ll meet up but then he flakes out and wants to facetime instead.”

“You know,” he hums, keeping his eyes carefully directed towards the ceiling. “People don’t usually _adopt_ their ex-crushes.”

“We’re friends,” Éponine snaps.

Montparnasse gives her an unapologetically judgmental look. “So act like one. Tell him he’s a dick for blowing you off and let him flunk his classes if he wants to, you’re not his mom.”

She mutters something indistinct and falls back into silence. Montparnasse watches her from the corner of his eye and he really doesn’t like what he sees. It was worse when she was still in love with the guy, obviously, but what good is it for her to get over those feelings if she’s going to keep insisting on getting worked up over him. Marius is a dweeb. A pretty one, Montparnasse is gracious enough to allow that much, but a bumbling, over-emotional dweeb. He wishes he’d just fuck off back to France. It’d be better for Éponine.

He drags himself to his feet, putting the energy of frustration to better use. He won’t smoke around Ponine, but he can indulge in his other addiction.

“Coffee?”

She glances up and gives him a smirk that doesn’t quite match the suddenly softening expression in her eyes. “Only if you make me one of your fancy ones.”

\---

Courfeyrac talks of Marius’ progress like a proud parent. It makes Jehan smile. And they’re glad to smile at it, because it means that this situation is no longer quite as grave. There is even room in Courfeyrac’s mind again for other concerns. Apparently one of his mistresses is considering carrying a child.

“I’ll be happy for her, of course,” he says emotionally. “Margriet would be a _wonderful_ mother. I’ll just be so sad to let her go.”

Jehan hums sympathetically. “She might choose to come back to you though, right? After the pregnancy?”

Courfeyrac sways his head thoughtfully side to side. “She might, but once there are children involved everything always changes. People’s priorities change. And so they should. Life and aging mean something different when you are raising a child…” He sighs deeply. “Whatever she decided— _If_ she decides to have a child, I hope they’ll be as lovely as she is.”

The degree of affection with which Courfeyrac speaks of all five of his mistresses never fails to endear Jehan to him. He is the only vampire they know with an arrangement such as his, with so many wards that all know each other. And he appreciates them all so much. He loves them. Not in the same way Musichetta loves Bossuet and Joly, certainly not in the same way he loves Combeferre, but he _does_ love them. And they love him.

“Courf, can I ask you something?”

“But of course.” Courfeyrac smiles apologetically. “I’ve been talking of nothing but myself. Awful of me. Please go ahead.”

Jehan smilingly shakes their head. “I just wondered… I don’t think I ever asked you, how do you choose your mistresses?” They look into their friend’s face. “I know it’s their choice, but, how do you decide who you can even make the offer to?”

The surprise on Courfeyrac’s face is very obvious. “Are you thinking of taking a ward?”

“No, I—” They shrug. “I just wondered.”

“Well…” Courfeyrac leans back on the sofa, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “I’ve had many, of course, and it’s always different.” He smiles vaguely. “Never the same conversation twice.”

It suddenly seems strange to Jehan that they never thought to ask him about this before. They know extremely little about the warding process in general. But then it was never relevant to them. They have never wanted a ward, an ally, mistress, whatever the best way to call it is. But then…they’ve never truly wanted to drink from the same person more than once. Until now. Twice was not enough. Not enough to forget about Montparnasse’s lips on theirs and his hands in their hair, not enough to make the sound of his laugh fade.

Courfeyrac hums, calling their attention back to him as he leans towards them.

“Have you ever mentioned the existence – or the _idea_ – of real vampires to anyone human?”

“Only as a joke.” That had been the first lesson Alexandre had taught them.

“Mm,” Courfeyrac nods. “Well, even when it’s only mentioned lightly, I have found that humans always react in a very distinct number of ways. Most of them laugh, of course. Some of them seem afraid, that doesn’t happen a lot anymore these days. Some even react with a sort of…contempt.” His brown eyes light up when he looks at them. “But with _some_ of them there is a certain kind of spark. Some…thinly veiled delight at the suggestion that such a thing might be real. They may try to hide it, but it’s there.” He smiles, wide enough for his fangs to gleam between his lips. “Those are the people we could tell, because really, we’re only telling them something they’ve always secretly wished was true.”

Courfeyrac sits back again, losing a bit of that wonderful delighted brightness Jehan always loves to see in him.

“We have to be careful, of course,” he says, waving his hand. “Very careful. Always. One cannot make such an offer to anyone. You have to have a relationship already. Something to build upon.”

Jehan smiles, trying not to let their thoughts stray too far. “I know you have, Courf.”

He presses a hand to his heart. “I _know_ I’m dreadfully sentimental.” He sighs. “But it’s a very deep connection, not easily dissolved either.”

They hesitate, but they have to ask. They should already know this. “How much blood does it take? Or how often?”

“Mmm.” Courfeyrac clicks his tongue. “Once a month is a necessity, to keep the bond strong, keep the mortal body safe. If I’d only be able to share that scarcely, I’d have my darlings drink at least half a pint.”

Jehan feels a short flush of relief. That’s a lot. Far more than they have fed Montparnasse, even the first night when they got a little overzealous.

“As for how many times…three helpings of that should be enough to lay the basis.” Courfeyrac moves his shoulders uncomfortably. “I hate talking about it in such a clinical manner.”

“Sorry,” Jehan smiles, somewhat distracted. Only three times…

“No, no,” Courfeyrac protests, affectionately touching their arm. “It’s important to talk about it. I’ve been saying for years we should teach classes, or something, at the community centre. But to tell the truth I do suspect Enj would rather see the practice die out.”

Jehan looks away. They know that all too well. “He agrees it’s a wise step to take before turning someone,” they mutter.

“Mm, yes, but that’s not at all the same thing, really.” He sighs. “I know we have very different reasons not to drink from animals, mon cher – mine much more selfish than yours – but I can tell you, I could never live in comfort without my sweet mistresses.” He gives them a kind, but very attentive look. “Is the hunting beginning to grow tiresome for you?”

It is extremely hard to lie to Courfeyrac. He is old and has been their friend for a very long time. “No… I wouldn’t go that far.” Jehan thinks of how Montparnasse looked as they made sure he lay comfortably in his own bed. They blink hard. “I was just thinking, you know. Because wards- allies, work differently here than any other place I’ve been. Look at Chetta.”

“Ah yes, that is an entirely different matter,” Courfeyrac laughs. He flutters his hand with affected dramatics. “But we cannot all be found out by two medically inclined lovers who both fall head over heels in love with you at the first glint of your fangs.”

Jehan laughs. “I think Chetta would say in spite of the fangs.”

Courfeyrac’s smile widens to a grin. “Mm, I very much doubt Joly would though.”

His expression is wicked and Jehan stifles a snort.

“In any case,” he says, softening again. “There are many possibilities, many different ways to be happy.” For just a moment he looks very old as he smiles. “Nowadays.”

“Yeah,” Jehan mutters. “Life here is different.” Lies aside, it is fortunately also rather easy to be truthful, when looking into such a kind face. “Perhaps I ought to change with it.”

Courfeyrac smiles and gives their hand a short squeeze. “Just remember, there’s no hurry. If there’s one thing we’ve got, it’s time.”

Jehan smiles back. But they choose not to answer any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know going from Enjoltaire to Jehanparnasse is hardly a popular choice, but to all of you who are enjoying this instalment: thank you <3
> 
> Dutch 101 with Freckle:
> 
> “Beter hou je je bek” means “you shut your gob”.  
> Café-club Soho and Club Nyx are real places, both on the Regulierdwarsstraat which is known locally as “the street of gay nightlife”.  
> “Gooise Vrouwen” is a Desperate Housewives-esque tv series that ran for four years about a decade ago and is still famous for its posh-people drama.  
> “Oké dan” just means “alright then” but it has a very particular undertone of “now we don’t have time to unpack _all_ of that”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter had a title it would be called "Consequences".
> 
> If you didn't read The Coffee Shop AU this chapter comes with a warning for dark backstory. References to violence and loss of freedom.

The Soho’s interior is beautiful, all polished wood and mirrors lit with soft, flattering light. Montparnasse comes here often enough that the staff knows his name. This is a place he can persuade Sous and Mer to join him at, but tonight he is alone again. Or rather, he’s alone still, he fully intends to leave with someone tonight. Someone he knows. There’s more than enough old acquaintances that are regulars here. It’s been three weeks, it’s time he replaced the memory of Jehan’s touches with someone else’s.

“Mont?”

He looks up into the smiling face of the bartender, blinking against his thoughts. He must have seemed _really_ engrossed in his drink. “Ruben,” he replies with affected gravity.

Ruben nods towards the door. “You expecting someone?”

Montparnasse turns around on his barstool and his heart stutters. Jehan is lingering in the doorway. More than one person is looking at them and with good reason. They look striking. They’re dressed more masculine than the other times he has seen them, in a dark floral dress shirt with a waistcoat over it that nearly matches their trousers, and their long hair is pulled back. But for first time they’re wearing make-up, their lips painted a deep burgundy that sets off how very pale their freckled face is. Their eyes, dark as ever, are fixed on him.

Montparnasse has slid off the stool and crossed the room towards them without even thinking about it. Jehan looks almost shy and the smile that tugs at the corners of their mouth as he approaches is slight, it does not part their lips.

Their shyness makes him bold, however. They came here for him. He was here looking for someone else – yes, someone to help him get over them, but that can be glossed over – and here they are. Looking like that. And looking _at_ him like that.

He grins. “Thank you.”

Jehan’s eyes cast down for a second before flitting back up to his face. “For what?”

“Everyone thinks you’re here for me,” he says, his voice as easy as the way he stands before them. “Quite a boost to my reputation.”

Something in their eyes shifts. “But I _am_ here for you.”

The sincerity of their words twangs in his chest, making his smirk falter. He suddenly wishes…He doesn’t know what. He swallows. “Don’t feel like coming in?” He knows he can’t exactly sit down and have a drink with Jehan, but—

Jehan’s eyes dart to the side, glancing past him. “Lot of mirrors in there…”

Montparnasse blinks. “You mean that’s _true?_ ” he blurts, only remembering to modulate his voice halfway through the exclamation.

They nod nervously.

“Shit, well—” He glances back at the bar, where Ruben is pretending not to watch him. Fuck it, whatever. He extends his arm, in a welcoming gesture. “After you then.”

Jehan steps back into the little vestibule and Montparnasse follows, grabbing his coat as they open the door to the street. Outside it’s full of lights in the dark and small groups of people find their way to the various bars and clubs. They both have to step aside to let some people pass and Montparnasse feels Jehan shiver when he bumps against them.

He slants his head to look at them and he sees their eyes dart from point to point quite clearly. His eyes, his lips, his neck, his eyes once more. He’s sure that if it were possible, their face would be flushing right now. Flattering, infinitely flattering, but also a little puzzling. He raises one eyebrow just a little.

“I, um—” Jehan glances around. “Can we walk a bit?”

“Sure,” he hums, choosing to walk back the way he came.

Jehan walks beside him, hesitantly silent for a moment, before they say in a low but rather tense voice: “I shouldn’t be here.”

He gives them a sideways glance, but their expression does not seem actually upset, just nervous, and a little awkward maybe. “Why not?”

“We don’t really…visit, the same person twice.”

The two of them are walking at a slow pace, companionably close, and they’re blending in with the other pedestrians seamlessly. Montparnasse hums. “Is that a vam—” He catches himself. “…a traditional thing?”

“Sort of,” Jehan murmurs. “Personal, too. But—” They glance at him. “What I do to you I can’t keep doing without…lasting consequences.”

That sounded like it took a lot of saying. Montparnasse rolls it around in his mind for a moment or two. It makes sense. The way he feels after he tastes their blood, that’s too strong not to make an impact. It’s not hard to imagine that it might become addictive. Or, well, if you did that too much or too often, it would probably do what all drugs do. The effects become less and it takes some sort of toll on you. He looks back at Jehan and once again there is that genuine concern for his wellbeing that has struck him before.

“So,” he says carefully. “You don’t want to do that again.”

“I do—” Jehan’s voice drops to hoarse whisper and Montparnasse can feel the sound of it sliding down his spine and twist in his stomach. “But I _can’t_.”

Montparnasse feels a vague sort of admiration for their self-control. He very much doubts if he would have been capable of the same, in their position. And in his current position, he doesn’t like this much either.

With a gently, but decided movement he reaches out and catches them by their arm, using what little forward movement they still had to turn them towards the nearest wall. This way they’re standing just out of reach of the most glaring lights, suddenly close enough to really feel each other. Jehan stares up at him silently. Completely silent, no longer breathing.

“Why did you come then?” He’s smirking as if he already knows the answer, but he genuinely wants to know.

“I…I wanted to tell you that. And…” Their eyes are almost black and at this angle he can see their fangs when they speak.

“And?”

Jehan’s lips part. “And…”

They press against him the instant he kisses them. Montparnasse cradles the back of their head in his hand so as not to press them too roughly against the wall. Their kisses don’t need burning blood to taste good. There is no one he can remember that has ever kissed him like this. He doesn’t care if they can’t share that exact same high with him, if he can just have _them_ again. And besides, if he stays sober, maybe he’ll be able to see the night through for once.

His lips leave theirs and he kisses the shell of their ear. “Come home with me.”

\--

Montparnasse is soft and _so_ warm. It is beyond them to say no to him. They don’t _want_ to say no to him. So they follow him home a third time. His apartment feels nearly familiar now, even though they’ve seen very little of it.

His kisses taste different than the previous times. They’re less frantic, deeper, more indulgent. It’s making their head spin. He has already led them halfway towards the bed before they manage to pull away a little, bumping against a tall closet.

“Careful.” Montparnasse holds on to them protectively, immediately so close again.

They make an effort to meet his eyes. “I can’t feed you,” they say. “So I can’t bite you—”

“Mmm, I know,” he hums, reaching out to stroke past their cheek down their neck. He’s not really listening to them. Or he is, but he’s not taking it to heart.

“So don’t let me,” they press.

The change of tone gives him pause. “What?”

“Don’t let me bite you,” Jehan says earnestly. “I won’t do it if you won’t let me.” They have never done this before, been with someone with a beating heart and not fed on them, but they refuse to believe they’d ever do something truly against another’s will.

Montparnasse hesitates, stroking them idly for a moment. He slants his head in thought. “It’s about me not drinking from you though, right?” he says. “You could drink from me…”

Jehan shakes their head. “The wound wouldn’t heal fast enough.” They can’t run that risk. They _won’t_ do that. Just the thought makes them instinctively pull away from him.

“Alright, alright,” Montparnasse hushes, gently pulling them back in. “No biting, no getting high. I got it.”

He doesn’t sound disappointed or frustrated with them, just… Well, he’s suddenly holding them just a bit more hesitantly. They let themself relax against him again, pressing up against the enticing warmth.

“I’m not opposed to the other highs.”

Montparnasse grins and the press of his fingers against their skin grows more confident again. “I think I still have an unfulfilled promised to warm you up…”

They don’t have to answer him, because he kisses them again. Montparnasse has always been eager, but he’s more dominant this time than the previous nights. It takes Jehan a moment to catch on, but by the time he has them half undressed and pinned against the bed, slowly dragging his teeth down their shoulder, they understand that he’s trying to find out how to play their body. He’s doing a _remarkably_ good job.

So good, in fact, that they’re barely making a sound.

Jehan takes in a deep breath and lets it out on a whine. “You make- you make me forget to breathe—”

Montparnasse’s fingers dig pleasantly into the back of their neck in response and now they have the breath to do it they keen a little. They can feel him grinning against the curve of their neck. He sits up, slowly, his hands sliding down to drag blunt nails down their chest and stomach.

Jehan stares up at him. His hair is mussed up and his lips are plump from kissing them. Montparnasse is straddling their legs but they barely feel his weight unless they remember to focus on it.

He slants his head, fingers stopping just above the waistband of their trousers. “Below the waist doesn’t do much for you, does it?” he hums curiously, sliding his hands back up towards their collar bones.

They blink, far too distracted by the warmth of his hands against their skin to give an immediate answer. “Mostly…mental, I think,” they manage eventually, a little short on breath again.

Montparnasse’s eyes are fixed on them intently, studying their reactions as he leans in a little closer. “How so?”

“Body’s different, without bloodflow,” Jehan breathes. They’ve never had to have this conversation and they never really imagined having it with someone tracing warm fingers up their neck. “The feelings…” They shiver. “I guess the feelings are still there, but, by now I—”

Montparnasse’s thumb traces past the edge of their bottom lip and their breath stutters. There’s a bright, pleased spark in his eyes whenever he gets a reaction from them and Jehan is beginning to wonder what’s more dizzying. What he’s doing or the way he’s paying attention to them.

“Now you what?” he coaxes.

He’s still touching their face, so close to their mouth, they can practically feel his pulse where it rises to the surface of his wrist. They can _smell_ his blood. “I associate it with different…parts,” they breathe.

They nearly squirm when Montparnasse thoughtlessly wets his bottom lip. “Makes sense.” He grins again, leaning in to press a kiss to their throat. “So, neck…mouth…”

“Wrists—” Jehan groans.

Montparnasse hums in surprise. “Wrists?” He sits up again and his warm fingers close around their left wrist. “You do have very pretty hands…”

His thumb brushes over the soft inside of their wrist and Jehan closes their eyes. They’re smiling, fangs bared, half at Montparnasse, half at their own hubris. _God_ they want to drink from him.

And it’s not hunger. They’re not hungry. They just want him closer. They want _more_ of him. They want to drink, or they want—

Soft lips press against their skin and Jehan’s eyes open, despite their better judgment. Montparnasse’s eyes are still fixed on their face, and he’s kissing their palm, the inside of their wrist… His mouth is so warm. Just for a second Jehan feels the wetness of the inside of his lips and the urge to feel his teeth is suddenly _overwhelming_.

A frantic, needy sound spills from their lips and there is that spark in Montparnasse’s eyes again. He clearly misunderstands their sudden involuntary movement, however, because he drops their wrist and leans down again, pressing his mouth to theirs in a kiss.

Jehan kisses him back hard, pulling him in close and squeezing their eyes shut. Torture. All of this is gorgeous and glorious and _torture_.

“Do you need it?” Montparnasse mutters, his lips barely leaving theirs long enough to speak. “The blood, to go all the way?”

“Don’t know,” they groan. They _want_ it.

He kisses them again, more roughly than before, and then pulls away so abruptly that Jehan nearly startles. When they lift up their eyes he’s reaching towards his bedside table, fumbling with something they can’t see, and then—

-

It’s barely a cut, more like a scratch, but it’s just enough to bleed. Montparnasse’s eyes dart from his pocket knife to Jehan’s face and he can see the exact moment they smell what he has done. Their eyes widen and their dark lips part in a silent gasp.

The sight of it nearly makes him sigh. Despite his best efforts their lipstick looks almost untouched. _All_ of them looks as good as untouched. But now they’re practically writhing underneath him.

“Don’t have to worry about healing me,” he says, trying to keep his voice from wavering with his own feelings. “I can take care of this myself.”

Jehan makes a choked off sound and Montparnasse grins. He was really hoping this would be enough to work on them. He hums at them teasingly, and touches his bloodstained thumb to their lips.

They hardly move. All he feels is their tongue, but their _eyes_. Their eyes go black.

A tension ripples through Jehan’s body that Montparnasse hasn’t felt before and suddenly they move so fast that he barely has time to roll off them. His back hits the matrass with enough force to make him gasp, a spike of adrenaline heating him up, and a second later Jehan’s mouth is on his neck.

It’s not that Montparnasse doesn’t want to keep his promise. It’s just that he really, really wants to break it. Before he has even had the time to hesitate, his hand is twisting into Jehan’s hair and his head has tipped invitingly to the side. Jehan is making soft, muffled noises, their face buried into his neck, but… They’re not biting. He feels their lips, their tongue, the flat of their teeth pressed hard against his skin as they suck in a way that must be leaving bruises, but there’s no sting. No real pressure.

He wishes they’d bite him. He wants to feel in full what he felt a flash of just now. The effect that he has on them when they drink. He wants to be awake to look at them when they’re drunk on him.

“Go on—” He didn’t mean to and it’s just a whisper, but it escapes him all the same.

Jehan makes a single, nearly growling noise, and then they abruptly move away, to tear the rest of his clothes off him.

The only coherent thing he manages to say for quite a while is their name.

-

He didn’t fall asleep this time, not really. When he blinks away the drowsiness that his blissful body pulled him into, Jehan is lying next to him. They’re very still when they sleep, they don’t breathe, they don’t move, but their eyes do. Under their eyelids there are the faint fluttery movements of a person dreaming. Proof of life.

Montparnasse glances around the room, careful not to move too much. He closed the curtains meticulously, and the sun never shines straight into his bed. He puts his head back down again. Maybe he should wake them. Ask them if they meant to fall asleep, if they really want to stay. He’s pretty sure Faunt can go out during the day if they wrap up well. They’re just sensitive to sunlight, it’s not like the movies where they burst into flames. But then again, he’s not sure if all vampires are the same. Faunt is supposed to be a weak one, whatever the criteria for that are. But…he’d like to wake up still lying next to Jehan in the morning, and that’s not something he has been able to say about a lot of people.

So for the first time in a very long time, Montparnasse reaches out for an embrace, and with his arm around Jehan’s waist, he lets his eyes fall shut again.

\---

It’s worryingly close to sunrise when they finally make it home, but apart from that they did good. Jehan still feels a little light in the head, but they _did_. They didn’t hurt Montparnasse, didn’t feed him, didn’t bite him. Not even when he— They smile at the memory and groan a little at the same time. He hadn’t made it easy for them.

But it was worth it.

Jehan tiptoes past Grantaire’s room. It’s invitingly ajar, but they spotted Enjolras’ shoes in the hallway and the state they’re in right now, they prefer having a bed to themself. So they quietly make their way over to their own bedroom.

Just a taste. That’s all they had, and they didn’t take any more.

…and now what?

They don’t want to think about that right now. But maybe, maybe this can be it. Three is a beautiful number. Maybe they can leave it at three. Three nights for Montparnasse.

Jehan closes their eyes in the dark as soon as they’ve slid into bed. They gently touch their lips, carefully wiped clean.

The lipstick had been a good idea. It’s a terribly distracting taste. Just distracting enough.

\---

He didn’t fucking wake up.

Montparnasse has no idea when Jehan left, but with the curtains closed and no alarm he sleeps the damn morning away. When he finally opens his eyes the bed is empty again, and it feels like there’s only an echo of the pleasant feelings Jehan always leaves in their wake left in his body.

His bed smells like them though, he can tell that now. “Shit,” he groans and falls back into his pillows.

He should have just asked for their number.

When he finally drags himself out of bed he’s still groggy, the way he always is when he’s slept too long. He makes his way to the bathroom on autopilot, and doesn’t really wake up until he looks in the mirror.

There’s a message written on the glass, in Jehan’s burgundy lipstick.

“Sorry ♥ ”

Montparnasse doesn’t know whether to smile or grimace. He runs a hand through his hair. This is something out of a movie. A cheesy one too. But the thought of Jehan standing here, looking into a mirror that doesn’t show their face, deciding what to write before they leave…

…it doesn’t say goodbye.

His attention shifts to his own reflection. Oh fuck. He has bruises all over his lower neck. Colouring from pink to deep purple. A vague grin plays past his lips. That doesn’t look like goodbye either.

-

He’s almost late arriving at work, and that’s for the evening shift. He spent way too long lost in thought, and messing with his bedsheets, deciding whether or not to change them. He didn’t. As it was he didn’t even have time to shower properly. He didn’t bother with concealer either, but he did put on a shirt with a higher collar than he usually wears. That’s enough for the marks to be covered.

When he steps inside the shop Claquesous is talking to Kruideniers, doing their little “changing of the guard” bit and Marion is sitting behind the counter with obvious impatience on her face.

“I don’t want to know,” she grouches when he treats her to a sugary smile. “I do _not_ want to know why you’re late. Or why your hair looks like that.”

“My hair looks great.”

“Your hair looks obscene.”

Montparnasse is quite ready to treat that as the compliment it so obviously is and graciously release her from her duties, but he is drowned out by the noisy arrival of Fauntleroy, who comes bursting out of the door in the back. One moment they are a blur of purple clothes and pink hair, cheerfully calling out to Claquesous and the next they are staggering to a halt and turning on their heels to stare at him.

He raises an eyebrow at them.

Fauntleroy doesn’t move, they just stand there, their brown eyes wide and breathing so heavily that Montparnasse thinks they’re overacting it a little.

He snaps his fingers at them. “Hey, Faunt. What gives?”

Without so much as a word they abruptly turn away from him and hurry towards Claquesous. Montparnasse watches them go with nettled confusion. Faunt can be a nuisance when they’ve decided to be one, but they’re not usually this erratic.

Beside him Marion is already putting on her coat. Clearly, she couldn’t care less, but she’s about to. Because Fauntleroy has actually dragged Sous away from Kruideniers and whatever they are saying to him, it has an absolutely dramatic effect. Montparnasse is not sure he’s ever seen Claquesous change colour like that.

He spins to face the counter, his shoulders squared and one hand on Fauntleroy’s arm. “Marion,” he says tensely. “I need a favour.”

“What?” Marion says distractedly, looking up from her bag.

“Can you cover Montparnasse’s shift.”

“Eh, no?” she says incredulously. “My back’s killing me, I’m going home.”

“ _Why?_ ” Montparnasse demands, interrupting her, but Claquesous ignores him and instead looks straight at Marion.

“Please.”

She looks about as shocked as Montparnasse feels. Claquesous doesn’t even say please to _Babet_. Ever. Marion takes a step back behind the counter. “…okay.”

Claquesous nods his thanks and a second later he has grabbed Montparnasse by his arm and is forcibly dragging him to the backroom.

“What the fuck,” Montparnasse curses. Fauntleroy is right behind them, still staring at him with that deranged expression on their face.

“Kop dicht,” Claquesous snaps and Montparnasse begins to cooperate, if only to prevent himself from being physically dragged up the stairs towards Gueulemer’s little apartment.

“Gueul’s not home,” he says snidely. “And can someone tell me what the fuck’s wrong with you two.”

Without answering Claquesous takes out his keys and tosses them to Faunt, who catches them easily and unlocks Gueulemer’s door.

“You have a key to his place now?” Montparnasse smirks, trying to ignore the fact that Claquesous is literally holding on to him as if he’s likely to run away like a wild animal.

“Shut up,” Claquesous repeats and he shoves Montparnasse inside.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem!” Montparnasse snarls, breaking away from him and putting the couch between him and the others.

“Do you remember what you did last night?” Claqueous snaps.

Montparnasse stares at him. “Do I—”

“Who was it?” Fauntelroy’s voice is barely more than a hiss. “I can smell the blood in you.”

The look in their eyes has not changed, but Montparnasse can see the fear in it now. An angry, wild sort of fear. Fuck. He looks from Faunt to Claquesous and slowly raises up his hands. “I’m fine.”

“Do you _remember_ ,” Claquesous repeats. He looks calmer than Fauntleroy, but his face is complexion is still oddly grey. 

“I—”

“You drank- you drank from a vampire.” There is something frantic about the way Faunt’s words stutter out of their mouth. “ _I can smell it_.”

Yeah there’s no way in fucking hell he’s giving up Jehan’s name. “I _know_ ,” he says deliberately. He looks at Claquesous. “And I remember. And I’m _fine_.”

They both stare at him.

“No once forced me.”

Fauntleroy makes a strange, animal sound at the back of their throat and Claquesous roughly runs his hand through his hair.

“Sit the fuck down,” he orders. “And start talking.”

Montparnasse crosses his arms. If he wanted to deal with this kind of shit he’d go visit his parents. But they clearly have entirely the wrong idea of the situation and they probably won’t back off if he doesn’t say at least something. “Met them at a club, took them home, sent them on their way, that’s all there is to it.” Sure, that’s not quite true, but he’s certainly told more blatant lies about his conquests.

“Took them _home_?” Fauntleroy echoes in disbelief, but Claquesous is looking at him with a harder kind of judgement on his face.

“You ran into a vampire and decided to try and _fuck_ them?”

Well, the sooner they stop treating this as a big deal the better. “Pretty much.”

Fauntleroy’s expression is now teetering on the edge of incredulity and disgust, but Sous is still staring. “Why.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes, by this point it’s basically a knee-jerk reaction to any demand for him to justify himself. Why? Because Jehan is _gorgeous_ and _interesting_ and— “I was bored.”

Claquesous lets out a short, joyless laugh.

“When?” Fauntleroy demands, darting towards him. “And how much did you drink?” They are wrinkling their nose as if he stinks.

“Which time?” he deadpans.

They both gape at him and Claquesous swears. “How many times?” he orders.

“Three,” Montparnasse answers irritably. “If you’re going to interrogate me, you—”

“You swapped blood _three_ times?”

Euch, swapped blood. He makes it sound gross. “No,” he says curtly. “The last time they didn’t want to.”

Confusion sparks through the frown on Sous’ face. “Didn’t want to what.”

“To _swap_ ,” Montparnasse sneers.

Claquesous opens his mouth, but Fauntleroy beats him to it. “What the fuck do you mean-”

Montparnasse glares at them. “I mean that they weren’t in to it. We messed around, fell asleep, that was it.”

Fauntleroy splutters. “They fell _asleep_?”

“Yes, well, or pretended to,” Montparnasse says begrudgingly. “When I woke up the first time they were still there, when I woke again they were gone.”

Fauntleroy moves their lips soundlessly. Finally they spit out: “Then what did you do last night?”

Montparnasse gives them a level stare.

“You had _sex_ with them?”

“Unless we’re going to be pedantic about definitions yes, same as the other times.”

Claquesous makes a single, heavy sound, as if he’s having trouble breathing. Montparnasse turns to look at him but suddenly Fauntleroy lurches forward and before Montparnasse can stop them they have grabbed him by the collar, partially ripped the seam of his shirt and janked it to the side to look at both sides of his neck.

“ _Godverdomme_ , Faunt!” Montparnasse snaps and he fights them off.

Fauntleroy lets go of him, but Sous is already by their side and they and Claquesous both stare at the hickey’s on his neck.

“You let them do _that_ to you but they didn’t bite you?” Faunt whispers.

“Don’t fucking remind me,” Montparnasse says bitterly and he tries to fix his collar. He feels the distressed fabric and hisses. “You owe me a new shirt.”

When he looks up Fauntleroy is still staring at him. The frantic fear from before has gone, but they are no less serious. Slowly, they open their mouth, the sight of their fangs now oddly reminiscent of Jehan.

“Parnasse–” they say solemnly. “And don’t you dare take this as a compliment– but if had you with your throat bare and begging for me to bite you. I would have fucking drained you.”

Montparnasse stares back at them. Fauntleroy has never ever spoken about drinking from humans.

Beside them Claquesous lets out another one of those sour laughs. “They know where you live,” he groans. “And you don’t have _anything_ on them.”

“Excuse me,” Montparnasse sneers, his patience finally running out. “Nobody has explained to me what the damn problem is supposed to be? I’m not exactly hurt am I?” He sneers at Fauntleroy. “Or drained.” He steps away from both of them. “I’m absolutely fucking fine and who I do or do not decide to take home is none of your damn business.”

“God, you’re so fucking stupid!” Fauntleroy bursts out and Claquesous barks:

“It’s going to be our business when you’re _gone_ , though, isn’t it. When you don’t come in to work one morning because you’re—” He cuts himself off with an abrupt breath.

“Oh piss off.” Montparnasse looks at them with nearly angry exasperation. “I’ve never felt better.”

With one step Claquesous right in front of him and staring down on him with every single bit of height advantage he has. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Feels great. So you follow them. And you want more, because you feel _so_ much better and they’re so damn charming and before you know it you’re choking on blood as it’s forced down your throat.”

Fauntleroy’s hands are balled to fists. They look like they’re about to cry and Sous… Sous looks…hurt.

Montparnasse feels cold. “That’s what happened to you? …to both of you?”

Claquesous exhales and makes no answer.

This is the first time, the only time, he has said anything that sounds like an explanation for how he met Faunt. An explanation that makes the stubborn silence on the matter that even Babet and Gueul seem to deem necessary just a bit less incomprehensible.

“Vampire blood makes you stronger,” Claquesous flatly. “But it _binds_ you to its _owner_.” He refuses to meet Montparnasse’s eyes. “That’s what you allowed them to do to you. That’s what the blood is for. To control you.”

Montparnasse thinks back, still cold, but not convinced. It hadn’t felt like control. Not at all. It had just felt good. Just like Jehan had said. Something to heal his body and numb the pain.

“J— they’re not like that,” he says. “It can’t be all vampires that— _Faunt’s_ not like that.”

“How the fuck would you know,” they bite at him, their voice choked. They take a wobbly step in Sous’ direction and he puts and arm around him. While he extends his hand Montparnasse can see he is shaking.

He begins, slowly: “Babet doesn’t think—”

“Babet never met _him_ ,” Faunt snaps.

Montparnasse shuts his mouth. He has heard Babet talk about the vampires she allegedly met. Or heard about. They didn’t sound like monsters. Whoever gave Sous and Faunt that look on their faces must have been one though. But then, plenty of people are.

He stands back uncomfortably. “Look, there’s nothing I can say now, I can I?” The defensive tone sneaks into his voice despite himself, but he does mean it when he gives them both an awkward look of apology.

“Whatever. Forget about it,” Claquesous grunts.

Yeah, that’ll be real easy. “Fine,” Montparnasse mutters.

Faunt lifts their face to meet his eyes. “And don’t ever let anyone do that to you again.”

Montparnasse hesitates. Anyone, sure, but _Jehan?_ “…sure.”

Claquesous looks up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“If they wanted to control me I have given them plenty of opportunity,” Montparnasse bristles. “Sous you should _see_ them, I’m not going to—”

“Oh my god, Parnasse, find someone else!” Fauntleroy shrieks, they don’t even protest when Claquesous pulls away from them to grab his phone.

“Now what?” Montparnasse groans.

“I’m calling Babet.”

\---

Half an hour later Montparnasse finds himself trapped in Babet’s office and living through the _horrific_ experience of having to discuss his sex life with a woman who – while not actually as old _as_ his mother – is technically old _enough_ to be his mother. His only consolation is that Claquesous and Fauntleroy are just as trapped as he is and equally uncomfortable. Babet is trying to be motherly, something that she is frankly quite shit at.

This is why they all have untouched cups of tea sitting in front of them. Even Fauntleroy, even though Montparnasse is pretty sure their ‘tea’ might just be hot water.

“Alright,” Babet says decidedly. “I’ve listened to you all, now you’re going to listen to me. And if _anyone_ raises their voice again, I will dock your pay.”

“I don’t w—”

One look from Babet and Faunt shuts their mouth.

“Good. Now then.” Babet takes a deep breath and fixes her eyes on Montparnasse.

He nearly squirms.

“No one can tell you who to see or to stay away from-” She holds up a hand at Faunt without looking at them at the very first sound of them taking in breath. “-but there is no denying what you’re doing is dangerous.”

“Inviting anyone home is dangerous,” Montparnasse huffs.

“Quite,” she says measuredly. “As I’ve often told you.”

He gives her a dissatisfied look.

“But clearly, whoever you met did not mean you harm.” Babet glances at Claquesous and then at Faunt. “I think you’ll have to agree with me there. At least that they might have hurt him already.”

Fauntleroy gives no response, but Claquesous raises his eyebrows in silent agreement.

“Faunt?”

Begrudgingly Fauntleroy gives a shrug.

“What Parnasse just said about their concern for them, does that sound anything like him?”

It takes Fauntleroy a very long time to answer. “No.”

“So,” Babet says with obvious deliberate patience. “Perhaps they are more like Myriel.”

Fauntleroy grumbles.

“Who the hell is Myriel?” Montparnasse is getting pretty sick of clearly being the least informed person in the room.

“Language,” Babet scolds. She looks at Claquesous. “Sous?”

“He’s someone that helped us,” he says reluctantly. “Another vampire. He’s a pain in our—he’s a pain.”

“But not a monster,” she says.

Claquesous shakes his head and even Faunt doesn’t grumble this time. Montparnasse can tell they’re finally relaxing a little, now they’re just sulking. Well, he can relate to that at least.

“Some of my friends are quite fond of their blood drinking clients,” Babet says composedly. “They pay well and they are not very demanding.” Her expression cools. “But there _have_ been incidents.”

Montparnasse stubbornly refuses to fidget on his chair when she looks at him again.

“You don’t really have a way to contact this person, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“And if they come to visit you again, what will you do?”

He is very aware of Claquesous and Fauntleroy watching him from their respective chairs. “I’ll find out when that happens, won’t I,” he grunts.

Babet sighs. “Seems the vampire has more sense than you in this case.”

Fauntleroy snorts sharply and Montparnasse stays resolutely silent. That’s the thing. As much as he can tell Sous and Faunt are trying to look out for him, he can’t take the risk of them running into Jehan. They’ll scare them off. Jehan’s concern for him is genuine. He doesn’t like to think about it too deeply, but he knows it is. Maybe he pushed a bit far last time. The nearly healed cut on his thumb itches as a nasty reminder of just how far. Next time, there has to be a next time, he’ll keep a better hold of himself. But he can’t let Jehan hear any of his friends’ horror stories. Or they’ll refuse to ever see him again.

“At least now you know the _risks_ of what you are doing.” Babet says firmly. “I’m sure you’ll be careful.”

“Hm.” Risks, sure, it’s not like he’s going to forget the disgust and resentment when Sous first said the word ‘ghoul’ any time soon. But scare tactics have never worked particularly well on him, no matter how sincere.

Babet glances at Claquesous and Fauntleroy. “And I’m sure you two will keep an eye on him.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“I’ll smell it anyway, if he does it again,” Fauntleroy says with a look of distaste.

Montparnasse makes a mental note to take that into account. That’s going to be _really_ inconvenient.

“And I’m telling Gueul,” Claquesous announces unceremoniously.

“Of course you are,” Montparnasse sneers. “Maybe you can mention it when you call him about how nice it is that he gave you a key.”

Claquesous glowers at him and Babet makes an exasperated noise.

“ _Enough_.” She gets to her feet. “All of you go _home_. I will take over from Marion for the rest of the evening.”

Montparnasse is torn between being pleased with the time off and being insulted at the notion that he wouldn’t be fit to work right now, but Babet is already ushering them all out of the door.

Outside it is actually dark by now, Fauntleroy doesn’t need to bundle up against the last sunlight anymore and Montparnasse momentarily feels a pang of frustration. If things were different he might have actually talked to them about to this whole situation. Faunt could have helped him understand Jehan a little better. Because he doesn’t feel like he does. Not yet. But he wants to.

Fauntleroy’s eyes dart in his direction as if they want to say something, but they don’t say anything. Claquesous is idly searching his pockets, seemingly not very intent on finding whatever it is he’s looking for. When the silence between them lasts, she looks up, his face carefully indifferent.

“Want to come over to ours for a beer?”

The core of the tension in Montparnasse’s shoulders snaps and lets go. He shrugs. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is one of my personal favourites ^^
> 
>   
> Dutch 101:
> 
> "Kop dicht" means "Shut up".  
> "Godverdomme" means "goddammit".  
> The Soho is a real gay bar, it looks like this: [[photo](https://www.airbnb.nl/google_place_photo?maxheight=1000&maxwidth=1000&photoreference=CmRaAAAA8-bbY_m78-aik63sWYYDI4T4hyVVBy2oFly-Zsqv54MkzfCH2sW2It91mL_18J-IHekkudx_F7I8HD4ehTjUDLzhW3aWi7SVFpQC3yMHBYY16G47x4LTKxTfT_SiqSaHEhClL08Tz-qrY1xSv35GjqIiGhQQwwE6kp5AZciTPJUEGpKNlpRhlg&place_id=87661)], [[photo](http://www.reguliers.net/pictures/soho-04.jpg)].


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for some more distressed Marius, but also finally some actual communication and, at long last, Éponine!

“But I don’t _want_ to drink from humans.” Marius looks very unhappy with the whole situation and Jehan wishes they could help, but with Courfeyrac and Musichetta both trying to talk sense into him they’re guessing he’s overwhelmed enough. They are here to help, of course. But mostly because Courfeyrac seems to have an ‘all hands on deck’ policy when it concerns Marius. For now they’re curled up in one of Musichetta’s antique armchairs, watching Marius be extremely uncomfortable.

“I know you’ve decided to feed on animal blood,” Chetta says warmly. “And I respect that. It’s a perfectly reasonable choice. But you’re very young and if you have never tasted human blood—”

Marius suddenly squares his shoulders, growing visibly taller because of it. “I’m not going to change my mind,” he interrupts. A firm tone that Jehan is beginning to recognize as linked to Marius’ sparse but recurring moments of self-assured conviction burns through his awkwardness. “I don’t want to try it.”

“Marius, we’re not trying to convince you, honestly,” Courfeyrac pleads. “Please let her finish.”

The way Marius looks at Courfeyrac makes Jehan’s chest ache. It reminds them so much of themself and Grantaire, way in the beginning.

“What I meant to say,” Musichetta continues sympathetically. “Was that if you’ve never tasted human blood, it can take you by surprise.” She makes an effort to meet his eyes, her expression serious. “We live among humans, Marius, which means living surrounded by their blood. If you have decided to resist the urge to drink from humans, you must know what you’re up against.”

Marius looks at her in dismay and Jehan feels for him. They have noticed that he is often nervous around women and they suppose Musichetta is quite imposing, for someone that is not immediately convinced by her kind demeanour. Jehan can tell she is using her nurse’s smile on Marius, but it doesn’t seem to be working all that well.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Bossuet steps in. “Not for me.” He gestures to Joly, who smiles encouragingly. “Not for us. We know what we’re doing and if you _want_ , we can help you out with this.”

“But—” Marius looks uncomfortably from Bossuet to Courfeyrac to Musichetta. He hesitates, and sighs. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“None of us do,” Courfeyrac says sincerely. “But this might help you not ever to do that.” He reaches out to touch Marius’ shoulder. “Someone could get injured near you and the smell might overpower you. Or, you might have to feed from someone because you have no other choice…if you’ve never tasted human blood before you may not be able to stop drinking.”

Jehan silently plucks at the cuffs of their sleeves and thinks of their own lessons, how Alexandre taught them to drink, but never too much.

Marius’ shoulders are sagging in defeat. “…okay, if- if I have to.”

“We’re not making you, man,” Bossuet says decidedly. “I’m just saying.” He leans towards Marius in a conspiratory manner. “First time R drank from us he nearly got drunk enough to pass out.”

Bossuet has an excellent comedic stage whisper and Jehan can see one corner of Marius’ mouth flicker towards a smile for just a second. He still looks extremely uneasy though. They sit upright in their chair.

“You don’t have to bite anyone, Marius,” they speak up. “You have equipment to draw blood here, right?”

“Oh definitely!” Joly says. “No bodily contact required. If that’s more comfortable for you.”

Marius looks from Jehan to Joly with visibly relief on his face. “Yeah, it would be.”

Jehan gives him an encouraging smile that they shift to Courfeyrac as soon as he also looks in their direction, with silent gratitude.

“We’ll do that then,” Bossuet says cheerfully.

Musichetta makes an approving noise and looks at Marius again. “Doesn’t have to be tonight,” she says gently. “We understand this is difficult.”

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I’d rather get it over with, if I have to.” His eyes dart anxiously to Bossuet. “Shit, uh, I don’t mean—”

Bossuet laughs, warm and unconcerned. “Don’t sweat it. It’s fine.”

Marius manages a weak smile. “Okay, alright.”

“Can I add a little vampire etiquette?” Courfeyrac asks, putting an affectionate arm around Marius shoulders.

“Mm?”

“I know Chetta and I started this conversation, but Chetta talked to Boss and Joly _first_. They are the ones offering. Not her.” Courfeyrac’s friendly face pulls into a grim expression for a moment. “If you _ever_ meet a vampire that offers you the blood of an ally without having asked them, you get as far away from them as possible.”

“And tell us before you tell Enj,” Bossuet adds light-heartedly. “Or we’ll have a repeat of May 2007.”

Under the cover of the responding groaning laughter Musichetta makes her way over to Jehan, sinking down on the arm rest of their chair. Jehan reaches out and touches her hand affectionately to their cheek.

“Fledglings,” she mutters, sinking her voice so she will not be heard by the others. Joly has walked off to get the medical equipment and Bossuet is making blood related puns in an attempt to make Marius laugh in spite of himself. Musichetta sighs. “And I thought I was ready for this myself.”

Jehan looks up at her. Her pinned-up curls, the only clear reminder of her youth in the 30’s, give her a striking silhouette against the lamplight. They give her hand a short squeeze before letting go. “It won’t be the same with Joly and Bossuet,” they murmur.

“I know,” she sighs. “But still.” She glances over at Marius, who has agreed to sit down and is letting Joly show him the blood drawing kit. “Fretful boy.”

Jehan hums. Poor Marius. At least Grantaire knew what he had gotten into, even if it wasn’t his choice. He understood what was going on. It makes such a difference, understanding. Slowly, half lost in thought, they tip their head to the side. The way he’s sitting now, with his curls falling forward a little, he almost reminds them of Montparnasse.

It’s strange. They are about as far apart as Jehan can imagine to people being. But they _look_ just a little alike. In this light at least.

Montparnasse wouldn’t be so distressed, surely. He understands far more than any human Jehan has ever met. But he clearly doesn’t understand fully, or he would not have tried to— Jehan tries very hard not to think of the way he cut himself to feed them. They want to see him again. They want to see him again so badly.

Even with Marius right in front of them. With Courf fretting and Musichetta sighing and all the proof of what can go wrong being practically shoved into their face, they still want to see him again.

But not yet. Not yet. They count silently in their head. It’s been two weeks since they last saw him, five weeks since they last fed him. Not long enough. They should wait at least two months. To be safe. If Montparnasse wants to…be with them again, they’re not sure they’ll be able to keep themselves from drinking from him. Which means feeding him again and they don’t want to give him too much. That cannot happen. They cannot link him to them. So they must wait.

Actually, _three_ months would be needed for any influence of a normal feeding to have faded. But they didn’t feed Montparnasse so very much, did they? Surely two months is enough…

Marius’ laughter surprises both Jehan and Musichetta, who sits upright on the armrest.

“I’m sorry,” Bossuet groans. “I should just let Joly do it. I’m a klutz.”

“Yes you should,” Joly tuts, taking the needle out of his hand and leaning over Bossuet’s arm.

“You barely reacted!” Courfeyrac sounds incredibly proud. “Marious you didn’t even reach for him.”

“Well, I—” Marius stammers, but Courfeyrac passionately shakes his head and tries to hug him, seated as they are on the couch.

“No it’s good, Marius! Very good! Your self-control is remarkable.”

“He didn’t say I could touch him yet,” Marius explains awkwardly, patting Courfeyrac’s arm where it’s wrapping around him.

“Well,” Musichetta mutters. “Courfeyrac sure knows how to pick them.”

Jehan watches with an irrepressible smile how Marius shyly allows himself to be cuddled and praised while Joly expertly draws some blood from Bossuet’s arm. Marius barely even seems to notice that they’re doing it. Courf’s right, that’s remarkable. And an enormous relief.

\---

Claquesous is not subtle about checking up on him. Neither is Gueulemer. They’re so unsubtle that if it had been in his power Montparnasse would absolutely have called Jehan to hook up again, just to spite them. Or at least, he’d like to have the possibility. It’s hard to shake the way Sous and Faunt look at him sometimes. They’re genuinely on edge. And they may be out of line and getting on his nerves, but, there aren’t a lot of people around that genuinely care about him. And they do.

In any case. It’s not his choice whether he sees Jehan again or not. It’s been more than two weeks now and they haven’t come back. Yet. It was three weeks last time.

Altogether this situation is doing very little for his concentration. He’s so zoned out waiting at the counter of Éponine’s favourite take out place that the owner has to tap him on his arm to get his attention.

He shakes his head and mutters something approximating an apology while handing over a handful of his tip money.

“And some spekkoek for the young’uns,” the man adds, tucking and extra package into the bag before handing it to Montparnasse.

“I’m sure you’re their personal hero,” he smirks and he takes his leave, thinking that Éponine obviously goes there way too much. Azelma and Gavroche probably will stop by tomorrow, though, they usually do on Wednesdays, so they’ll be thrilled.

He makes his way to Éponine’s house, pressing an annoying little rhythm on the buzzer until the door swings open.

“My roommates are going to hate me,” she glares by way of a greeting.

“Mm, they love me though,” Montparnasse says unconcernedly, pushing past her with deliberate jostling. He grins. “Where is Iris tonight?”

“Safe from you.” Ponine slams the door. “Fuck, that smells good,” she groans, leaning towards the bag of food. “I’m starving.”

Holed up in Éponine’s room they fall into a comfortable ritual of bitching about work in between squabbling over the panadas. Montparnasse does drawling impressions of his worst customers, because there’s no one else around to see him do it, and Ponine recounts the horrors of her administration job with her usual expert levels of comedic sarcasm. In between her lamentations Montparnasse manages to find out that Gav and Zelma are actually getting on pretty well with the new family coach and that their parents seem to be listening for once, which is a minor miracle.

All in all, she seems much more relaxed than she did last time he saw her. Which means he’s very unpleasantly surprised when she suddenly puts down her glass and says, in a far too serious and decided tone:

“I need a favour.”

“And I need my nails done,” he says dryly.

Éponine gives him a sober look.

“Alright,” he grunts, pushing the empty food container away from him. “What is it?”

“I need you to ask your boss about something.”

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows. Éponine has only met Babet once, a poor attempt on his part to show Ponine that despite some obvious difference in the morality department, personality-wise they should get along. It wasn’t particularly successful and Montparnasse has never heard Éponine say anything nicer about Babet than that she could respect how she runs her business.

“What do you need Babet for?” he asks suspiciously.

Éponine bites her lip. “I want to know if there’s anything…going on, at a certain address in the Jordaan.”

“Going _on_ ,” he echoes, a little incredulous.

“Yeah, like, bad stuff.”

“I know what you meant,” he interrupts. “What do you think she is? A mob boss?” But this is genuinely unnerving him. Of all his friends Éponine is the one who does _not_ get mixed up in shady shit. Despite her father’s best efforts, he might add. Montparnasse meets her gaze. “What the fuck’s going on, Ponine?”

She doesn’t answer write away, and when she does, she speaks fast enough to prevent him from interrupting her.

“Marius hasn’t dropped out, but he’s only going to his evening classes and there’s something _wrong_ with him. He agreed to see me the other week and afterwards I followed him to this weird-looking community centre and I need to know what goes on in there.”

Montparnasse stares at her. “You— Did you go in?”

Éponine looks at him with an uneasy expression. “No.”

He runs his hand through his hair. Surely Marius Pontmercy is too bloody vanilla to get involved with anything _dangerous_.

“I mean it, Parnasse,” Éponine says quietly. “I don’t know if he’s sick or…something. But he looks like he hasn’t slept in ages and he was all…cold and—” She cuts herself off with an unhappy sound of frustration.

At the edges of Montparnasse’s mind something like static is beginning to buzz. _Cold_ …

“You guys get coffee usually, don’t you?” he mutters. “During your break? Is that what he blew you off for?”

“Yeah,” she mutters.

Montparnasse nods, more at himself than at her. He’s trying very hard not to think certain things. And he’s thinking them anyway. “Alright,” he says, forcing himself to focus on Éponine again. “Give me the address. I’ll check it out.”

Her face brightens. “You’ll ask Babet?”

“If I have to,” he says vaguely. “Probably gonna take a look myself first , though.” He guides his expression towards a slight sneer. “Nothing Pontmercy can have gotten mixed up with I can’t handle.”

Éponine blows out a breath. “Thank you.” She looks better already and no matter how distracted he is right now, he can’t ignore that. She trusts him to take care of this now.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t.” She gets to her feet. “But I will do your nails for you.”

He snorts. “We both know I’d do a better job myself.”

Éponine takes her battered beauty case off the shelf near the window with complete unconcern. “Yeah, but we also know you love being pampered.”

He’s not about to argue with that, but mostly because for the first time in his _life_ , he is excited about something involving Marius Pontmercy.

\---

Apart from the normal meetings of the Amsterdam Blood-dependents Community, there were frequently other happenings too. Tonight Combeferre would be giving a lecture on vampire history, something he was very adamant more modern vampires should know about. Learning from the past lest it be repeated and all that.

“I wish Feuilly was here,” Combeferre says mournfully. “He said he'd stop by soon.”

“Bahorel probably got mixed up in another local revolt,” Courfeyrac hums. “You know how it is.”

Jehan squeezes Combeferre's arm affectionately. They have been in Amsterdam for three years now and they have never seen more of the infamous Feuilly and Bahorel than the postcards they send to Courf and Ferre.

There is a sudden disturbance in the hallway near the front door and Grantaire detaches himself from the small group of muttering vampires and comes to stand next to Jehan.

“There’s someone standing outside just…watching,” he mutters. “Not one of us.”

“Not now,” Combeferre groans, looking up distractedly from his notes.

Courfeyrac lets out a ruffled huff and hurries to the window, Marius trailing behind him. Jehan follows too, more curious than worried. There are no rogue hunters in Amsterdam and none of the ones from the usual organisations would ever approach the community centre.

They have to lean past Marius, who is much taller than them, to see out the slit between the blinds covering the windows. When they do, however, they freeze in place with shock.

Right in front of them Marius gives a startled squeak. “I know him! His…his name is Montparnasse. Should I go—"

“No, stay put!” Courfeyrac says hastily. His eyebrows crease into a worried frown. “Could he have followed you? We have to get rid of him!”

“I’ll go,” Jehan blurts out. The thought of anyone going out there to intimidate Montparnasse into going away is more terrifying than the thought of letting him see them. What on earth is he doing here? How did he find this place? Could he really be here for Marius?

“Yes, good, Jehan, you go,” Combeferre agrees, never pleased to be interrupted. “Shoo him off.”

“Alright,” Jehan croaks, hastily pushing past their friends while trying to hide their face. Behind them they hear Marius mutter:

“Are you sure? I can ask him to leave...”

“No, cheri, not if he knows you,” Courf says decidedly. “Jehan can take care of it. They're a strongblood, strongest Presence of all of us here.”

“That's a good point,” Combeferre says. “Where is Enj?” He looks round. “Grantaire?”

Slipping away from the noise, Jehan goes out the front door and closes it behind them with a heavy click. They can't let Montparnasse get inside, they just can't. As soon as they have stepped onto the pavement, however, they can tell he's no longer interested in the building now he has seen them. His eyes flit from the window to their face and he smiles.

Jehan falters. Montparnasse is leaning against a wall, one foot slightly in front of the other, watching with no visible intention to move. He looks like one of Grantaire's paintings...

Panicky doubt clashes with gratified vanity in their chest as they slowly cross the street, trying to gain enough time to compose themself. Did he go looking for them? He did say he knew a vampire, the first time that they met. Perhaps he asked around. But even then. Amsterdam is big and how could he possibly have known they’d be here tonight?

They still don't know what to say when they reach him, but Montparnasse pushes away from the wall with something like triumph hidden in the pleased look in his eyes.

“Fancy seeing you here…” he drawls and as soon as he does Jehan is sure that he came here at least hoping that they would be here.

They stare at him, all too aware of their friends back inside the building, possibly even watching them. Montparnasse doesn’t look scared or even uncertain. He looks—

“Good evening,” Montparnasse says softly when the silence between them lasts and suddenly he moves forward as if he wants to kiss their cheek.

Jehan is too surprised to move right away, but when they feel Montparnasse's warmth coming nearer, they recollect themself and hastily step to the side. This way they are between Montparnasse and the window. He looks surprised and a little taken aback, but that can't be helped right now.

“You…you have to go,” Jehan rasps. “You can’t be here.”

Montparnasse’s expression is very hard to read. “No?”

Jehan shakes their head, firmly.

“Pity…” Montparnasse says, slowly. “Guess I’ll go then.”

They don't answer, too busy struggling against the urge to ask him how he has been since they last saw him, whether he minded very much that they snuck out again.

“Sorry for intruding.”

They look up into his eyes. “It's not that,” they say before they can stop themself. “But you _can't_ be here. You have to go.”

“Alright,” he says, drawing back a step. “I'll go.” He slants his head. “Except...how will you know I've gone home? Are you going to check up on me?” A teasing grin sparks in his eyes. “You know where I live…”

They want to. They want to check up on him. They've wanted to go see him for weeks. It's only been three weeks. Does he even know where he is? Has he got any idea what he would have found if he had gone inside?

“Or you could see me home,” Montparnasse's voice rouses them from their frantic thoughts. “Make sure.”

Jehan blinks at him and suddenly Montparnasse offers them his arm. It reminds them oddly of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, a slightly clumsy, joking version of something they still do in earnest.

Jehan doesn’t even mean to take his arm. They just really, really want to.

With a sigh Jehan links their arm with Montparnasse's. As soon as they do he dutifully starts walking, away from the ABC headquarters. Even with the shock of his sudden appearance still jittering in their chest, Jehan can't help but feel how good it is to see him again. Just to be _near_ him again. They walk in silence for a while and Jehan steals a glance up at Montparnasse's face. It seems he is just as pleased to be near them again. Oh this would all be so much simpler if he didn't make them feel so lightheaded.

“How did you find us?” they manage to ask eventually.

Montparnasse hums, keeping his eyes on the street in front of them. “I have a friend who’s a little overly fond of Marius…”

Oh. So it _was_ about Marius.

“I won’t tell her,” he says, glancing down at them. “I’ll keep the secret.”

Jehan looks down at their feet. “…thank you.”

“It's a meeting place, isn't it? For people like you.”

They nod.

“I didn't—” Montparnasse hesitates for a moment. “I didn't want to startle you. I just thought, Marius really is going to a place like that. How many could there be in Amsterdam? And if he was, he might know you.”

“He's, um- My friend Courf-” Jehan cuts themself off, not sure if any of that information is theirs to share. They decide against it. “I haven't known him long,” they say finally.

Montparnasse hums. “I didn't mean to scare your friends,” he says, sounding at least mildly apologetic. “Did they send you out to chase me off?”

“Something like that.”

“Why didn’t you make me leave? You can do that right?” There is curiosity in his voice, no nervousness, but something still twists in

“I don’t…I don’t like doing that sort of stuff.”

“But you can.”

Jehan nods uncomfortably.

“But you didn’t. And now you’re walking home with me.” There is something nearly soft about Montparnasse, softer than before, but there is still that glitter of triumph in his eyes.

They missed him. Jehan struggles to admit it even to themself, but it feels like they genuinely missed him. “Well, like you said,” they say, making an effort to keep their eyes on the street ahead of them. “I’m making sure you get home alright.”

Montparnasse hums warmly in response and for a while they walk in silence. Jehan struggles against the complete discord of thoughts and feelings that is master of them right now. It is _so_ good to see him again. They are happy to walk on his arm and just the thought that he has gone through so much trouble to find them seems to warm their cold skin. And then there is how he found them. Such a coincidence. Fate… But they know damn well what they’re doing right now and they shouldn’t be doing it.

When they turn into Montparnasse’s street Jehan is already bracing themself and sure enough, they haven’t even reached his door when he tips his head towards them.

It sounds like he’s starting to say something, but they’re too distracted to know what and then suddenly his lips are brushing theirs. His kiss ghosts against their lips and they an _almost_ taste him.

“Please don’t do that,” they breathe. They can hear his heartbeat, they can smell him.

Montparnasse takes a step back, a shadow passing across his face. “Cause you don’t want me to, or because of the blood?” he asks.

Jehan makes a weak sound at the back of their throat and swallows hard. “It’s only been six weeks…”

The shadow fades and his eyes light up with teasing amusement again. “It was only a kiss, Jehan.” He draws towards them again. “Want to come in?”

Yes, yes they do, more than anything. Jehan bites down on their own words. “I don’t think—” they begin.

“I’m sorry about last time,” he interrupts gently. “With the knife. I won’t do it again. We can just- No blood. Alright?”

No blood… They have to force themself not to inhale, smelling him is too tempting. If they kiss him again they’ll lose it. For sure. Miserably, Jehan gives the tiniest shake of their head.

-

It’s strangely hurtful to be rejected in such a soft, mournful way. Montparnasse really doesn’t know how to handle this. He’s not exactly used to be told no, for a start. But…he’s also not used to wanting someone _this_ badly.

“It’s not…safe,” he says eventually. “Six weeks is not enough.” Jehan clearly doesn’t _want_ to say no to him, so they do want him. He can work with that. They’re afraid to hurt him. Afraid of the same things Sous and Faunt are afraid of, probably. “You don’t want too much of your blood in my system.”

“Yes,” they say hastily, relieved. “I can’t, Parnasse, I _shouldn’t_.”

An odd burst of feeling jitters against his ribcage at the abbreviation of his name and he represses the urge to grab their hands and hold them. “How much time would be enough?” he presses.

Jehan swallows visibly. “Eight weeks?” they say, in a very small voice.

Two more weeks. Well, patience is a virtue, isn’t it. Montparnasse looks at them, trying to read the conflict in their eyes. “Okay, so… No fooling around for a while.” He holds up his hands, half-joking half-sincere. “Promise.”

They breath out on a faint laughing sound, hesitant, but no longer looking so miserable. Good, Montparnasse isn’t sure how long he could have born to see that expression on their face.

“…you could still come in though.” He takes a step towards the door, strategically putting some more distance between them to show Jehan he means it. “We can just talk, or whatever.” Because the truth is, he wants that too. To talk. To get to know them better. He’s not going to lie and say he doesn’t care what they do as long as it’s with them, that’s bullshit. But… “Tell me about another thing you like,” he coaxes.

Slowly a faint smile appears around Jehan’s mouth. There is still conflict in their eyes, an edge of desperation to their expression, but he can tell that they’re really not fighting him. They’re fighting themself, trying to deny them both something they both want. He doesn’t have to stand for that. _Surely_.

“I like poetry.”

Montparnasse nods. Figures. “I don’t know anything about poetry.” He puts one hand on the front door, behind his back. “Teach me some?”

This time a genuine smile graces their face. They look down, trying to hide it, but they’re failing, and Montparnasse grins in response.

“Let me text my friend,” they mumble.

“Of course,” he grins and he unlocks the door with all the triumph of the evening beating in his chest.

-

This time he gets to watch them leave, leaning out of his window around four in the morning, with the cold night air touching his flushed cheeks. Not being allowed to touch Jehan is infuriating. They wouldn’t even sit next to him, confining themself to a chair while he sprawled out on the narrow sofa. But apart from that… Montparnasse blinks, trying to make out the last of Jehan’s silhouette as they move beyond the light of the nearest streetlight. There’s something oddly rewarding in getting Jehan to talk to him, free from restraint. He can tell when they’re truly relaxed when they talk, because they stop hiding their fangs. They don’t mumble and mutter, like Faunt, but their normal way of speaking is rather restrained. Clearly meant to not open their mouth too far.

It was beautiful to see that caution fall away. To see them as free and unguarded while laughing about some guy called Tennyson as they had been when they were all grabbing hands and eager kisses.

With just a slight smirk Montparnasse pulls out his phone and sends the first message to a brand new contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Spekkoek” (or kueh lapis) is an Indonesian layer cake and it is a _treat_.
> 
> I would like to thank my patient sister for all her hard beta work <3


	7. Chapter 7

It’s a good thing they had to put their phone away to wrestle the door open, because Jehan has barely set one foot inside the hallway before Grantaire descends upon them.

“Exactly how far away did that guy _live_?”

Jehan turns around to close the door, avoiding to look into Grantaire’s face with a sudden return of the panic that had left them completely under all Montparnasse’s easy assurances. “I…didn’t want him to wander back.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Grantaire snorts. “But it’s half past four. What’d you do, tuck him into bed?”

The grin on his face falters when they turn around to face him. Jehan has never been good at lying to him. They aren’t good at anything they had really rather not do.

“Jehan…”

“Yeah?”

“Did you…?”

Jehan gives ups. “This was the guy I told you about,” they blurt out.

Grantaire’s eyes widen.

“The beautiful one,” Jehan adds shyly.

“Yeah, I got that,” Grantaire shakes his head. “Jehan, what’s going on?”

Luckily this is Grantaire. With anyone else they wouldn’t know where to look from embarrassment. But R understands them, he always does, and once they’re tucked under his arm on the couch they let the whole, confused story spill from their lips.

Grantaire listens with no other interruption than some very expressive noises now and then and when they’ve finally told him everything Jehan looks up at him with a helpless, pleading expression.

“R…I want to go back so _badly_.”

“Well…” One corner of his mouth quirks up. “Why don’t you?”

“I can’t!” they splutter. “I _shouldn’t_.”

Grantaire pulls a face. “Why not? We’re not transient anymore. Things are different here. I don’t think Courf chose his mistresses after seeing them only once. Or tasting them once for that matter.”

They splutter. “I didn’t…! I wouldn’t want him to—” They shut their mouth abruptly and then add: “I don’t want to go too far. He may know about what we are, but that doesn’t mean he gets it. I can’t do this just because I want to!”

“So,” Grantaire says. “If I’ve got this right, this guy is practically throwing himself at you, and you’re afraid that you’re taking advantage of him.” He tips his head back in a warm laugh. “You’re a beauty.” He pulls them closer with the arm he’s got wrapped around their shoulders and presses a kiss to the side of their head.

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Jehan protests, allowing themself a genuine whine as they lean more heavily into Grantaire’s comfortingly broad frame. “He’s so…so…”

Grantaire grins widely at them, fangs gleaming. “Oh yeah? What’d he taste like?”

Jehan sighs and leans back on the couch. “…like the night, like forbidden things.”

Grantaire snorts softly and Jehan looks back at him accusingly.

“He speaks _French_ , R.”

“Could you taste that?” he teases.

They give him a shove and Grantaire has the good grace to pretend like it had any sort of effect on him.

“But tonight you just talked,” he says, fighting down his smile.

“Yeah,” Jehan sighs.

“And that was good.”

Jehan glances up at Grantaire’s face. He’s more serious than he usually is, but not in the way they were expecting him to be. He doesn’t seem to think they did anything worth correcting. He isn’t even shocked. They nod.

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself under control then,” he says. “Give yourself some credit.”

They open their mouth to protest, he can’t possibly know how close they feel to losing it whenever they get near Parnasse, but Grantaire interrupts them.

“What’s his name?”

“Montparnasse.”

“Montparnasse,” Grantaire repeats and it gives Jehan a little jolt to hear someone else say that name. Like it suddenly makes everything more real. “Well, you’ve seen him, what, four times? And now you’ve given him your number. _He’s_ clearly into you.” Grantaire gives them a smirk. “I’d say you have about two weeks of texting to figure out what you want to do with him.”

Jehan swallows. They can still feel like blushing, even if they don’t.

“Or _to_ him, Grantaire adds helpfully.”

Jehan covers their face with their hands.

\---

“Who is playing so hard to get that you’re willing to put actual _time_ in?”

Montparnasse automatically locks his phone screen, even before his head snaps up to treat Gueulemer to a mocking glance. “ _Gaat je niets aan_.”

“It will be my business when Babet chews you out for being on your phone every two sodding minutes,” Gueulemer snorts. He slides a new platter of little coconut cakes into the display counter, looking at Montparnasse long enough for him to give him an indifferent shrug.

Actually though… “I put effort in when people are worth it.” Montparnasse almost winces when he hears those words leave his mouth, but it’s too late now.

Gueulemer gives him a look that is not nearly as mocking as Montparnasse was expecting it to be. For a second it’s almost soft and then his grin widens again. “Very hard to get then,” he smirks.

Montparnasse gives a disdainful huff and demonstratively puts his phone away. It’s not like there are any customers to distract him right now. It’s not late enough yet. But _Jehan_ has just woken up.

-

“He sure makes you smile a lot.”

Jehan looks up to meet Grantaire’s amused eyes. He looks fond. He always does.

“He’s at work,” they reply uninspiredly.

“Works late, does he?” Grantaire hums, sitting down next to them on the couch. He’s dressed in nothing but boxers, a very human sleeping habit he has never bothered to get rid of.

“Yeah, in a café.” Jehan snuggles against him, glancing down at their phone. Smiling when the next message is a picture. It’s of Montparnasse’s nails, they’re painted a dark purple that is very nearly black. Jehan asked to see it when he told them. They send back an emoji with heart eyes.

Grantaire isn’t very subtle about spying on their conversation, but he politely does not draw attention to it by offering remarks. Besides, Jehan is just as guilty of reading over his shoulder when he texts with Enj. They’re capable of telling each other to back off when they need privacy, they’ve had more than enough practice.

Montparnasse has some very scathing reflections on his working conditions. Jehan doesn’t really know how to tell him that they haven’t actually had to work for literal decades, but they offer their sympathy all the same. The next message is a selfie of Montparnasse rolling his eyes to the heavens for patience.

“Oof,” Grantaire groans. “He really is pretty, isn’t he.”

Jehan makes a weak, whining noise of agreement.

“What’s it been,” he asks “A week and a half?”

They nod. They still haven’t decided what to do, mostly because what they want to do is to go see him _immediately_. But right now they have a firm denial to give themself. Seeing him now would endanger him. Definitely. They cannot run the risk of their blood binding him to them. But after the two months are over…

“Still agonizing?”

Grantaire sounds perfectly easy and Jehan looks up at him in disgruntled despair. “I just don’t know what to _do_ about all this.”

“You could stop pretending like you’ve done something awful, for a start,” Grantaire hums. “Keeping him a secret? Literally the most worrying thing you’ve done in this whole situation.”

Jehan blinks.

“With the way people live here, there are bound to be humans that know about us,” Grantaire continues. “Clearly he doesn’t want to make himself into a threat. The dude’s done nothing but flirt with you.” He nods towards their phone. “I feel your pain regarding a pretty face making you kinda stupid, but-” He grins. “Look where it got me.”

“You and Enj is different,” Jehan mutters, but Grantaire clearly choses to ignore that.

“What’s it you’re really agonizing over, hm?” He leans his head against theirs. “Are you really afraid you’ll hurt him or just afraid that you’re falling for a mortal.”

“I’m _not_ ,” they try to protest, but they’re interrupted by another text.

 **Parnasse** : wish I could see your face again

“Looks like you’re not the only one,” Grantaire snorts.

They glare at him and he only grins wider.

*Sorry, can’t send a picture :P* they send back.

 **Parnasse** : seriously? like the mirror thing??

Jehan smiles. *Yup. Sorry.. *

“Here,” Grantaire suddenly interjects. He reaches out to grab his sketchbook from the side table and flicks through it until it opens on a page with a sketch of their face. It’s not one of his detailed drawings, but it’s unmistakeably them. “Go on,” he grins and Jehan feels such a burst of affection for him they press their forehead to his shoulder for a second before taking a picture of the sketch and sending it to Montparnasse.

His reply is nearly immediate.

 **Parnasse** : wow

 **Parnasse** : did you draw that?

They glance at Grantaire and he nods.

 **Parnasse** : No, my roommate R

 **Parnasse** : is he the same?

Jehan smiles faintly. Montparnasse is trying to be discrete. *Yeah* they text back.

 **Parnasse** : cool

 **Parnasse** : beautiful

Jehan smiles a little wider and holds the phone up for him to see.

“Don’t think he’s talking about my artwork,” he winks.

They roll their eyes and Grantaire chuckles, grabbing the remote of the tv while tucking his other arm more firmly around them.

Jehan keeps texting Montparnasse, curled up on the couch and snuggled against Grantaire, until he sends a hasty message about his boss being onto him. It’s a strangely lovely way to spend the beginning of their night.

\---

Sous and Faunt’s house is pretty much the only place where no one bitches at him for propping his feet up at the coffee table. If that beat up thing still counts as a coffee table, that is.

Fauntleroy plops down next to him, kicking their feet up in exactly the same way and tipping their head back in an attempt to mask the fact that they’re inhaling extra deeply as they do so. They’re not as subtle as they think they are.

Montparnasse has to make a serious effort to ignore the content little smile on their face. He’s well aware he doesn’t smell like Jehan and he _doesn’t_ need to be reminded of it. The two weeks are nearly over, but he can’t be the one to remind Jehan of that. That would come across so fucking needy. He doesn’t need that.

“ _Faunt_ ,” Claquesous’ voice comes from the kitchen with as much irritation as he ever allows himself to voice towards Fauntleroy. “Can you _please_ close these damn things properly.”

Faunt winces and Montparnasse grimaces along. Those are the sounds of a man who just inadvertently spilled blood on himself while moving things around the fridge.

“Shit,” Fauntleroy mutters and they scramble up again, hurrying to the kitchen.

Montparnasse watches them go with a slight expression of distaste. He knows Faunt has very little choice, but if _he_ had to drink blood, he would definitely prefer Jehan’s methods to lugging around containers of disgusting cold animal juice.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Even before he has taken it out he catches himself wishing it’s Jehan. And it is.

 **Vogeltje** : So… Want to meet up, _after_ Monday?

He grins all the way through sending his reply. And he doesn’t stop grinning after.

\---

They are early, too early, Montparnasse isn’t home yet. Jehan wonders if it truly can be called a coincidence that he works nights. Their hair is twisted up in a messy bun and they are tugging idly on a loose strand, their eyes fixed on the street corner where they expect Montparnasse to appear.

Despite the late hour other people pass by, it’s that sort of neighbourhood, and some people give them a doubtful look. They’ve forgotten to put on a coat, it probably looks strange.

They look round, to the other end of the street, at the rattle of a bicycle and to their surprised delight, there he is. They see his face light up with a grin in the orange streetlight as soon as he spots them waiting by his door.

He speeds up, jumping off the bike while it’s still moving and shoving it aside with a clang. In two steps he has closed the distance between them and Jehan feels the spark of joy they felt when they saw him flare up as they breathe in the first taste of his scent. They are _just_ aware of Montparnasse hesitating to touch them first. Aware enough to throw their arms around his neck anyway and a moment later his lips are on theirs.

Montparnasse is _warm_ , so warm. Jehan can taste something honey-like on his tongue and he smells like coffee and sweet smoke. But no cologne. They breathe out a blissful sound, smiling against his lips and Montparnasse pulls away just far enough to grin at them.

“Hi.” His voice is wonderfully low and out of breath.

“Hi.”

He kisses them again, warm hands cupping their face, and then immediately lets go of them again to hastily turn to the door. He unlocks it with hurried impatience and drags them inside.

“What about your bike?” they ask, trying to bring their voice down to a whisper, the house sounds very quiet.

Montparnasse makes an utterly indifferent sound and catches them by the hand as he runs up the stairs. Jehan follows, trying to be quiet but a giddy laugh nearly bubbling up through their chest. They have spoken to him nearly every day for two weeks straight and he is _beaming_ to see them.

They allow him to drag them inside and shut the door of his apartment, but they don’t wait for a third kiss. This time it’s their mouth pressed to his, hard enough to make him groan and Jehan revels in the taste of him, free from any interfering taste of lipstick or the smell of products in their nose. Instinctually they wrestle his coat off his shoulders, pulling him away from it when it slides to the floor. That was what the smell of smoke and coffee had clung to most strongly, not unpleasant, but an insult to the scent of Montparnasse’s own skin.

He hums into the kiss and grabs them by their hips, leading them blindly through the room until he falls away from them, landing on the sofa. Jehan grins at the greedy way he gulps for air and plants one knee on either side of him, straddling his lap and leaning in to kiss him again. They were going for sweet, but he drags them close, close enough to feel his heartbeat pulse against their skin.

Even Jehan gasps when they break apart again, breathing in reflex as much as from a desire to take in his scent again. Montparnasse tips his head back for a moment, his dark hair mussed and his face gorgeously flushed. He looks so pleased and he’s _so_ beautiful.

-

Montparnasse digs his fingers into Jehan’s hips as he holds on to them, pulling himself more upright to get closer to them again. Fuck he has missed this. “You’re worth the wait,” he breathes heavily. “But I do fucking _hate_ waiting—”

They meet his kiss readily, but for just a second he thought he saw their expression waver. Montparnasse pulls away again, unsure if he just fucked up.

“We don’t _have_ to…” he starts hesitantly. “I mean, if you don’t want to. We can do something else.”

Jehan’s head slants slightly while he speaks, but then they grin, fangs gleaming. “Like what?”

Their eyes are full of hidden twinkling and the sound of their voice rolls tangibly down his spine. Christ, they’re making it hard to think. “I don’t know,” he groans, shifting underneath them. “Talk about poetry some more?”

Jehan smiles wide. “Well…I do like poetry…”

Their hands slip down his chest and they tip forwards, nuzzling against his neck while their fingers find the first button of his shirt and Montparnasse hears a sigh escape from his own lips. They’re such a confusing mix of shy restraint and wild abandon. One moment he feels like he’s going too fast for them, the next he can barely keep up. Cool lips press against his skin lower and lower as they tug the fabric of his shirt out of the way. He barely noticed their coldness anymore, too much heat pulsing just beneath his skin for it to even bother him. Slowly, he slides his hands up from Jehan’s hips to their back, under their t-shirt, pressed to their skin, and in response they lift their head and press a kiss just below his ear.

His thoughts have slowed down so much it genuinely takes him a moment before he manages to turn the sounds Jehan is suddenly purring against his skin into words…

“ _Teach me to sin—  
In love’s forbidden ways,”_

Montparnasse’s lips part, but doesn’t make a sound. His head tips to the side under Jehan’s gentle nudges and he blinks against the dim light in the room. Even as his body strains and his heart thumps his whole mind is suddenly focussed on following their murmured sentences. Their voice is reaching into his chest to uncoil all the heat trapped inside of him and he needs to hear _every_ word.

_“For you can make all passion pure;  
The magic lure of your sweet eyes  
Each shape of sin makes virtue praise…”_

Jehan’s mouth kisses a trail up his neck, following the path of his pulse. But when he raises his head they kiss his cheek, gently, nearly reverently, before lifting their eyes to his.

 _“Teach me to sin—”_ they whisper, their mouth tilting towards his.

_“Enslave me to your wanton charms,  
Crush me in your velvet arms…”_

They swallow the last word, opening their mouth against his and wild as he is for their words Montparnasse kisses them back as hard as he can. They moan, pressing closer when he wraps his arms around them and in an impulse he tips them sideways. He pushes them onto their back on the sofa, their legs tangling up with his for lack of space and Montparnasse follows their example, leaving a trail of kisses down their throat.

“Go on,” he urges, nipping at their skin. “I want to hear the rest.”

Jehan keens distractedly, their fingers digging into his back and dragging him closer.

Montparnasse muffles a groan against their shoulder and pulls their shirt aside, grateful for how worn the fabric is. He makes a single pleading noise and kisses them again.

“ _And make_ -” Jehan’s voice hitches slightly and Montparnasse vows to himself he will make them do that again.

_“And make me, make me love you.  
Make me fire your blood with new desire,”_

Montparnasse sucks on the curve over their collarbone in a way that should leave lovely little blooming bruises. It drives a part of him mad, the thought that he will never be able to leave a single mark of his affection on Jehan’s skin, but there are words spilling from their lips right now. Gorgeous, nearly stuttered words, their tongue tripping over the words as they feel his.

_“And make me kiss you—lip and limb,  
Till senses reel and pulses swim.”_

One of their hands slides into his hair and he groans his approval, kissing them where they steer him, back up their neck, towards their jaw, as they recite in little panting gasps:

_“Aye! even if you hate me,  
Teach me to sin.”_

Their grip on his hair tightens and Montparnasse shudders as they lift his head so they can look each other in the eye. Jehan’s face is pale and unflushed as it always is, but their hair has come undone and their eyes are dark with want. As he looks at them, taking in how they lie there underneath and tangled up with him, they slowly open their mouth. It’s almost as if to take a breath, but he sees them bare their fangs, even if they cannot catch the light now. And under his fascinated, heated gaze, Jehan sinks their teeth into their bottom lip.

They bite until their lips bloom red and the smell that suddenly wraps around him is so twisted up with blissful memories that Montparnasse feels weak with want. Silently Jehan offers him their mouth, their eyes black and beautiful, and with an adoring hum Montparnasse kisses, licks, _drinks_ the blood off their lips. Jehan pushes back as he kisses them, making him sit up by sitting up themself, and Montparnasse follows blindly. The taste, no the _feeling_ of Jehan’s blood, is slowly seeping into him. It’s gentle, slyly intoxicating, but soft.

With a sigh Montparnasse tips his head to the side, licking his own lips and trying to follow the feelings tenderly unfurling itself through his body. He lifts his eyes to Jehan’s face, letting himself lean back until his back is supported by the nearest armrest.

“Mm,” he hums, the very first hint of drunkenness to his voice. “Not what it felt like last time.”

Jehan smiles and with one movement they are on top of him. They kiss him, rough enough to steal his breath, and a sudden heat rushes down his throat and flares up wildly in his chest. Jehan’s blood burns as hot as their skin is cold and a frantic heartbeat later they are looking at him again, eyes shining. Their mouth is _red_.

“Yes,” he gasps, sparks dancing in the dark of his mind. “More like that.” And with a firm grip on the back of their neck he pulls them back in.

\---

“Why Jehan, you’re positively glowing!”

Jehan does their best not to look too caught. It’s been three days, they had hoped it wouldn’t be that obvious anymore. But Courfeyrac always notices these things.

“Really,” Courf says warmly, affectionately touching their cheek. “Such a shine to your everything, cheri.”

They smile, casting their eyes down for a moment. “Yeah, I’m…” They hesitate.

Courfeyrac hums and when they meet his eyes again he’s smiling with a knowing sort of fondness. “Did you visit your new favourite?”

Jehan nearly winces, but they really should have expected him to see through them. They nod.

Their friend smiles at them widely, all charm and genuine affection. “Marvellous.” He gently shakes his head in an affected manner, sighing: “Oh, such early stages and your first time too, how romantic.” He gives Jehan’s hand a squeeze. “Once you’ve made up your mind, I want to know _all_ about them.”

The urge to tell him is very strong, but it doesn’t trump their hesitance. They aren’t like Courf, Jehan knows they could never keep mistresses like he does. They’re very sure he never felt for them the way do about Montparnasse. Whatever it is that they feel for Montparnasse. They prefer not to look too closely at it. They’ll allow the feeling to sweep them up, drag them along and make them soar, they do not want to study it and give it a hold on their mind as well as their heart.

So they nod quietly at Courfeyrac, hiding behind what they know he will interpret as shyness. It’s touching, how delighted he is on their behalf. Yet another reason not to explain to him how much of a mess they might be making of this.

\---

Maybe it’s his own fault, it fact it probably is, but it’s been more than a week and he can’t _keep_ avoiding his friends. He has barely set foot in Gueulemer’s apartment, however, or Faunt is already staring daggers at him.

“ _You_ —” they hiss, but Montparnasse cuts them off.

“Shut your fanged mouth and get over it. We waited two fucking months to make sure it was safe again, what more do you want from me.”

Fauntleroy opens and closes their mouth in tongue-tied emotion and finally they turn around with an angry flounce. “You’re a moron,” they spit, marching to the kitchen. They glare over their shoulder. “And you _stink_.”

Montparnasse rubs his temples. He looks up at the sound of Gueulemer appearing in the kitchen doorway, Faunt and Sous’ muffled voices just about audible behind him, over the noise of the oven. Gueulemer looks at him thoughtfully and Montparnasse looks back defiantly. Gueul has been letting his afro grow back in lately and it makes his silhouette even more striking, Montparnasse will never stop resenting that despite his above average height, almost all his friends are taller than him.

Gueulemer steps forward, closing the door behind him, and gives a short nod of his head back towards the kitchen. “Guessing that’s about your new fling?”

So Claquesous _did_ tell him. Typical. Montparnasse snorts. “And what of it.”

Gueul shrugs, but he keeps looking at him. “How many times have you seen them?” he asks eventually.

“Five.” He answers quickly, still on the defensive, but maybe he shouldn’t have, because one of Gueulemer’s eyebrows has raised in slight surprise.

“Really?”

“ _And what of it_ ,” Montparnasse repeats testily.

“Nothing, man,” he hums. “Just, five times in, what, three months? That’s a record, right?”

Montparnasse stares at him. Gueul’s right, of course, but that’s not the point right now. The point is that the frequency seems to be all Gueulemer cares about.

“Just saying,” Gueulemer says airily, before Montparnasse can think of anything like an appropriate reply. He turns back towards the kitchen. “Grab a bottle from the hallway stash, will you, Sous is less bitchy when he gets to have his fancy wine.”

So Montparnasse does, and the rest of the evening all three of his friends carefully avoid any subject even vaguely to do with hook-ups or dating. Still, he’s suddenly painfully aware of how often he feels the urge to check his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Jehan recites is “Enthralled” by Alfred Bryan, from Pagan Love Lyrics (1921), because when I have the opportunity to mix poetry into my smut I'm gonna take it~
> 
> Dutch 101:  
> “Gaat je niets aan” is the Dutch “None of your business”.


	8. Chapter 8

Grantaire is painting again. He said he missed doing traditional art, so now Jehan gets to watch him mutter over a canvas again. They’ve always loved watching him paint, it’s easier to spy on than his digital drawings. He’s working on a portrait of Enjolras. One he’s utterly dissatisfied with, of course. It’s turning out extremely beautiful, in Jehan’s opinion.

“Impressionism…is the bane…of my existence…” Grantaire mutters, his brush lightly touching up the yellow on the canvas.

“Mmm, I thought realism was the bane of your existence?” Jehan hums fondly, swinging their legs over the armrest of the fauteuil Grantaire put in his studio for them.

“It is,” he says firmly. “They both are. Can’t paint exactly what I see. Can’t paint exactly what I experience.”

Jehan looks at Enjolras face, looking out into the world from the confines of the painting. His eyes are brilliant, seemingly fixed on a horizon only he can see. A horizon that must be lit up, because there is light streaming into the picture, blending together with Enjolras’ hair until it’s no longer clear where he ends and the light begins. But what Jehan likes best is the smile on his lips, faint and almost distracted. That is something only Grantaire would ever have thought to capture.

“It’s gorgeous, R,” they say quietly.

Grantaire lifts his brush away and looks over his shoulder. “Please make sure to mix your compliments with mockery until the work is fully finished, or I shall be forced to escort you off the premises.”

They snort. “It _is_ gorgeous, R,” they repeat, grinning. “I think you should title it ‘I started working on this while I was totally blitzed on his blood and now I can’t stop, please send help’.”

“Better,” Grantaire hums. “And also true.”

Jehan laughs.

Their phone chimes and they can’t help the small burst of joy when they see Montparnasse’s name. Neither of them slowed down with the texting after their latest night together. They open the message

 **Parnasse** : you free tonight? x

They swallow a sigh.

 **Jehan** : It’s hardly been two weeks

 **Jehan** : I want to! But

Montparnasse’s reply doesn’t come as quickly as it usually does.

 **Parnasse** : you mean I can only see you once a month?

There is a pang in Jehan’s chest.

“Something wrong?” Grantaire hasn’t looked up from his mixing palette, but clearly he’s noticed.

“Parnasse wants to meet up again.”

“Mm, greedy,” Grantaire smirks.

“ _R_.”

“Oh come on, you’ve been together before without drinking, and how long has it been now? You’re clearly not ready to give up on this, so you might as well.”

They glance down at their phone.

“Go on,” Grantaire smiles. “At least tell him what’s eating you, if you want to pass on eating—” He cuts himself off with a laugh at their glare.

“You’re terrible,” Jehan scolds, but they get to their feet with their spirits lifting.

*I’ll come over x* they text Montparnasse. Just the thought of getting to see him makes them feel better.

\---

Montparnasse answer the door without acknowledging the eager rhythm of his heart. Jehan is standing on the doorstep with their hair braided over one shoulder and a shy smile on their face. He grins.

“Evening, Vogeltje.” He leans in and presses a kiss on their cheek.

Jehan’s hand rests briefly on his arm and they go inside when he steps aside for them with their smile just a little wider than it was before. “Hi, Parnasse.”

Montparnasse closes the door behind them and follows them up the stairs. He likes the way they say his name, switching accents slightly as they speak. “You remembered to put on a coat this time,” he remarks, following them into the study.

“Yeah,” they laugh as they take it off. “It’s…good to see you.”

He nods. What he’d like to do is close the gap between them and give them a proper kiss, but judging from their texts that’s probably off the table. Montparnasse slants his head. “Last time you said something about wanting to see American Gods, right? We can do that if you like.”

Jehan gives him one of their genuine smiles, fangs glinting. “I’d like that.”

Montparnasse nods, pleased with himself. The show doesn’t really look like something he’d normally watch, but he honestly couldn’t care less what he’s doing, as long as it lets Jehan be around him while he tries to figure out how to navigate what’s churning in his mind right now. This time Jehan even sits down on the couch with him, even better.

As it turns out, they barely get halfway into the first episode before Montparnasse has to pause, to let Jehan express their feelings about book-to-series adaptations. They have a lot of feelings. And, to Montparnasse’s surprise – which may be misplaced, he admits – they can quote entire passages of the book.

“You’re laughing at me,” Jehan scolds finally, giving him an accusatory push against his chest.

“I’m not,” he grins. “I’m just enjoying your rant.”

“It wasn’t a rant.”

“Sounded like a rant.”

Jehan looks up at him, eyes twinkling and after a moment’s stillness they lean towards him, one hand on his knee. Montparnasse looks from their eyes to their mouth, blinks, and clears his throat a little.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he begins, trying to hit a jokey tone. “But it’s pretty damn hard to do this daily boundaries thing when you keep looking at me like you _need_ me to kiss you.” It’s flattering., but it’s maddening to not act on it.

“Ah-” Jehan starts back a little. “Sorry.”

Montparnasse catches their hand before they can remove themself to the other end of the couch. He _likes_ them close. “I can deal with it,” he says hastily. “I just, want to be sure.”

“Sure of what?” Jehan groans, half-smiling. “Of whether I want you to kiss me? _Yes_. I _always_ want to kiss me.”

He isn’t quite sure if what he’s feeling right now is joy or vanity, but he doesn’t care. Montparnasse tugs on their hand a little, moving towards them until their knee is pressed to theirs. “So…?”

Jehan gives him a conflicted look, grimacing through their smile. “I, um, fed you rather a lot last time.”

The memory of it flutters very vividly through his mind. Yeah, he’s aware. “Well…” He looks into their eyes. “We can fool around without drinking, yeah? No pocket knives, I promise.”

They exhale on a laughing breath, already involuntarily leaning into him, but still a little hesitant.

It’s hard, very hard, to pick apart the threads of want and self-control that seem to control Jehan’s decisions. Montparnasse wishes, just for a moment, that he was different. That their roles were reversed perhaps. He would treasure each moment of seeing Jehan drunk on him, draw them in, sweep them off their feet, but keep them safe all the while. They wouldn’t need to worry then.

Jehan’s face is very close.

“Can I kiss you?” Montparnasse murmurs.

Their eyes are deep and dark. “Yes, but—”

“But no drinking,” he adds with a faint smirk, tipping his head towards theirs.

“No drinking,” they breathe, as if they barely know the meaning of the words, and with a sudden rush their lips meet his.

-

About an hour later Jehan rolls off Montparnasse, who is still keening with pleasure and gasping for air. They swallow hard, dizzy with the taste of his blood and the feeling of it boiling in their insides.

“We’re _really_ bad at this,” they groan.

“We’re fucking amazing at this,” Montparnasse disagrees with a grin, his pupils so wide that his eyes seem darkened nearly completely to black. “And it worked, didn’t it? Didn’t have to feed me too much this time cause it was still in my system from last time. Win-win.”

Jehan laughs. They can feel his blood singing inside him, they can smell their own blood on _him_ , how can they not laugh? There’s simply no room left for guilt. They stretch out on their back, next to Montparnasse.

He takes a few deep breaths, laughing along. “Tell you what,” he grins at the ceiling. “It’s really damn good to be awake for this. _Tering_.” He rolls onto his side to look at them. “You’re amazing.”

They look back at him. His face is flushed and his pupils still wide, but he’s fully awake. Not even drowsy. It’s quite a sight.

“Is that because I drank less this time?” he asks, touching his neck with unconcerned curiosity. There’s no wound left, of course, luckily not.

“I think so.” Jehan smiles when he gently rests a hand on their side. “The mental effect of the blood doesn’t last as long as the physical stuff.”

“Mm.” He moves a little closer to them, until they’re nearly sharing a pillow. “I like this. Not going under, I mean.”

“Yeah…” Jehan takes in the pleased glow on his face and the complete ease of his posture. “So do I.” This is so different from how they’ve ever been with anyone else.

For a while they just lie side by side and in the silence around them Jehan can hear Montparnasse’s heartbeat slowly return to normal. It’s nice. And strange. Lying here like this, with him.

“Hey Jehan?”

“Yeah?”

Montparnasse rolls onto his side again and props his head up on his arm. “I was thinking...”

He sounds casual, but Jehan can feel something shift between them. Montparnasse is no longer wrapped in unguarded bliss.

“I know you want to be careful, with the blood.” His expression is very nearly earnest. “But I’m honestly pretty shit at careful.”

They laugh, a little nervously, and also rolls onto their side. “Yeah…” They don’t _want_ to be careful, that’s the whole problem. But they know they must. To keep him safe.

Montparnasse’s green eyes dart back to their face. “This just now, though, was…awesome.” He grins. “You don’t want to keep feeding me because it has consequences, but, I know how the ghoul thing works. I’d be okay with it.”

Jehan stares at him. He’d _what_. “I—” They sit up, frantically trying to sort their thoughts. “How old is the vampire you know?” they squeak nervously. “We don’t use that word anymore.”

“What, ghoul?” Montparnasse sits up too. “What do you call it then?”

“Ally, or ward if you’re traditional. Ghouls is…” They shake their head. If Montparnasse learned from someone who still uses that wording he shouldn’t be okay with _any_ of this. They fidget with the bedsheets. He’d _want_ to be their ward, really?

“Okay, ally then,” he shrugs. “Point is, it doesn’t sound half bad.” He slants his head to catch their eye and give them one of his gorgeous half-grins. “If it’s you.”

“I, um—” Jehan swallows. They’d get to keep seeing him. He’d be safe and they could be together. …could they? They look down.

A warm touch to their hand makes them look up again.

Montparnasse doesn’t look offended by their hesitance, his expression is almost soft. “Hey, I get it,” he says. “It’s a big thing, right? Like. There’s a relationship attached to that sort of stuff.”

“Exactly,” they say, relieved. With the offer suddenly before them, they know that they could never keep visiting him casually. The protective, but ultimately more friendly than romantic connection Courf shares with his allies is impossible here. They’d want more. For a fleeting moment they think of Bossuet and Joly and then they do their best to smile at Montparnasse, to thank him for understanding.

His green eyes meet their gaze with unexpected sincerity. “…I wouldn’t mind that.”

Jehan blinks. “You wouldn’t…”

“The relationship thing.” He almost manages to make it sound matter-of-fact. “I mean.” He smirks slightly. “I’ve never hooked up with anyone six times in a row.”

They want to reply, they do. Except they don’t know what to say and there are so many feelings storming through their chest that they aren’t able to breathe just now. Montparnasse wants to be with them. That’s…that’s…

-

Montparnasse keeps a cautious eye on Jehan. They look shocked. Genuinely shocked. He has a vague feeling that that should offend him, but he’s honestly pretty shocked himself. Romantic relationships aren’t his thing. He hasn’t tried it for years. But…he’s willing to give it another go.

If Jehan is ever going to answer him, that is.

They are sitting strangely upright, with tense shoulders and when they finally speak they sound oddly unhappy. “Parnasse, I _want_ — Please don’t— Are you sure?” Their dark eyes are wide and nervous.

Sure, sure. When are people ever sure of anything? “I like you,” he says, still looking them in the eye. “Liked you right from the start.” He’s had some time to think about this and once he’s made up his mind he can be very resolute. “What we have now. This ‘once a month or else’ thing. That’s gonna get real shitty.” He doesn’t want Jehan to freak out and look so damn guilty every time they want to kiss him. What he felt earlier, wide awake, his head swimming with bliss, and Jehan humming drunkenly in his ear. He wants more of _that_. And of seeing them smile as he opens the door…

“I want to, but—”

“Then why don’t we?” he interrupts. “We could just—”

“What if it’s my blood?”

Montparnasse closes his mouth. “What?”

Jehan’s shoulders sag slightly. “You’re under the influence of my blood right now,” they say soberly. “…I don’t want you to be doing this because of that.”

He looks down at his hands thoughtfully. Claquesous talked about that, very briefly. About not knowing his own mind anymore. But Montparnasse doesn’t feel like that at all. The idea of Jehan coming to him and no one else feels right. Just like the thought of getting to text them and ask them over without any excuses or pretence. Just. To be with them. “I’m not,” he says decidedly, looking up at them again.

“You can’t know that for sure,” they say quietly.

Montparnasse grimaces. _Right_. “Then…we can wait until you’re blood’s out of my system,” he says. “Two months, right? We can do that.” That’s gonna suck, but he’ll manage.

Jehan makes a protesting sound, though. “That was just to make sure I didn’t accidentally ward you,” they say unhappily. “To be sure the influence of my blood has left you we should wait at least…six.”

He stares at them. “You serious?”

They nod.

-

Jehan feels an odd sort of ache as Montparnasse rakes a frustrated hand through his hair. They’re rejecting him, against every single feeling inside of them, and it hurts.

“Well.” Montparnasse looks at them. “Okay. I’ll do that then.”

“You want to wait that long?” They didn’t mean for it to come out so surprised, but…

“Sure, I mean.” He shifts a little and frowns. “Jehan, this isn’t an “I’ll wait this long until you’ll feed me blood again”. I just… I’d like to hang out. Go out. With or without…all that.”

“Oh…” Against their better judgment, Jehan feels something warm tug at the corners of their mind. That doesn’t sound like the blood talking. That sounds like the opposite.

Of course, they cannot agree to ward him without being sure. They can’t. Out of the question. But, he wants to be with them. Go out with them. He’s basically asking them to go steady with him. The warm, tugging thing thrills in their chest and before they can stop themself they reach out for him and very gently kiss his lips.

When they pull away Montparnasse’s eyes flutter open again and he gives them a long look. “I’d _really_ miss that though.”

Jehan lets out a breathy laugh. “I can work on the kissing without biting.” Maybe they should stock up on lipstick.

He grins and grabs one of their hands, squeezing their fingers. “Is that a yes, then, Vogeltje?”

Yes. _Yes_. Jehan takes in a breath and nods. “Yes.”

Montparnasse’s grin flashes twice as bright and he rushes forward to kiss them back. They laugh, the glow of his blood still warm in their body, and a dangerously wild kind of happiness trying to take them over completely.

Perhaps Grantaire and Courfeyrac were right.

“Oh, Parnasse.” They pull away from him without going far enough to have to stop touching him. “If we’re going to try and…figure this out. I think you should meet Grantaire. R. My- I mean, he’s my roommate but he’s, more than that. We’ve been together for nearly thirty years.”

Montparnasse looks more curious than as if he’s about to object or take offence. “Alright,” he says. “Is he part of the club?”

“Yes, so are my other friends. Maybe you’d like to meet some of them too. Eventually.”

He nods, slowly. “I…don’t think you should meet my friends,” he says. “Yet.”

Now it’s their turn for curiosity. He still has never explained who this vampire is that he knows and they know very little about the people in his life that are important to him. He talks about work sometimes, but they haven’t learned any names. Well, he did say ‘yet’.

“Alright,” they say gently.

“I would like to tell them though,” he says suddenly. “They already kind of know. Some of it.” His expression turns serious. “And I want to stop lying to Éponine. I think she and Marius need to talk.”

“Yes,” Jehan mutters. “I’ll talk to the others about that.”

He nods.

“And…” They hesitate. “When you say your friends know, do you mean they know everything? About me?”

“They know very little, but they do know _that_ , yeah.”

They softly bite their lip. That…isn’t good. The others are not going to like that much.

“I didn’t tell them,” Montparnasse says softly. “They found out on their own.” He pulls gently on their hand until they look up at him. “They won’t tell anyone.”

“Is this your vampire friend too?”

He nods.

Well, they’ll just have to trust that then.

“I promise.” There is an edge to Montparnasse’s voice that they haven’t heard before and his expression is firm and sincere.

Jehan smiles at him. “It’s…dumb. We just always really try to keep to ourselves.” They rock forward, leaning against him. “You’re the first human I’ve ever met that found me out.”

Montparnasse wraps an arm around them and gently slumps down onto the matrass again, keeping them close against him. “Lucky, _lucky_ me.”

They chuckle and get comfortable in his embrace. This. They have a shot at getting to keep this. Surely that’s worth a little anxiety here and there.

-

With Jehan nestled against him and their head resting on his shoulder, Montparnasse is certain he made the right choice. This…this is worth a lot. He wonders how long it will take him to get used to this, wanting someone to cuddle up to him like this and stay there. He is getting cold though. Jehan is genuinely draining the warmth out of him now.

Quietly he reaches out and pulls the duvet on top of them both, not letting the fact that they’re both still half-dressed bother him in the slightest. Jehan responds by cuddling closer, tucking the sides of the duvet in as if they’re used to having to keep someone warm. Montparnasse smiles slightly, not even quite knowing why.

He silently ponders how late he could ask Jehan to stay. When even is sunrise? He doesn’t have to work tomorrow at least. Doesn’t mean he won’t have to get up though. “I have to go for my shot of T tomorrow,” he says, almost more to himself than to Jehan. He grins, glancing down at them. “Wonder if they’ll compliment me on my lovely healthy glow.”

Jehan doesn’t look amused, they’re staring at him with wide, startled eyes.

Montparnasse lifts his head off the pillow a bit. “What?”

They sit up, abruptly, looking so nervous all of a sudden that Montparnasse can nearly feel it in his own stomach. He sits up too. “Jehan, what—”

“What if my blood interferes with your hormone treatment!” Jehan blurts out.

He feels a pang of cold anxiousness touch his spine. “Could it really do stuff like that?”

“I don’t know!” They look genuinely afraid and Montparnasse doesn’t really know how to handle that.

“Look, listen,” he hushes, reaching out to touch their hand. “I don’t feel any weird effects. I get an injection every two weeks, I would have noticed.”

“ _God_.” Jehan grabs at their hair. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m _doing_.”

 _That_ sounds like they’re about to change their mind on him, and Montparnasse is not about to let that happen without a fair fight. “Jehan—”

“I’m, I’m sorry,” they interrupt, looking up at him pleadingly. “I know what I just said but—”

Montparnasse opens his mouth to protest.

“—would you be okay with meeting some of my other friends after all? Tomorrow night if we can?”

He shuts his mouth.

“I just- They know about this stuff. I should have asked their advice ages ago.”

Montparnasse shifts uncomfortably. Okay, that is…better than them backing out, but— “Yeah, sure, if you—” He shrugs. “If you think that would help.”

Jehan’s changes instantly with relief. “It really would.”

He smiles, once again, involuntarily fast. “Then I’ll come.”

\---

It is slightly alarming to walk Montparnasse to Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet’s door. It feels so odd to climb these stairs with him beside them, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Of course none of them thought it was a weird request at all. They didn’t even sound surprised on the phone.

Bossuet was the one to buzz them up and he’s waiting by the door of their apartment when they reach it. “Hi there,” he smiles cheerfully, immediately holding out a hand to Montparnasse.

He shakes his hand, nodding a little formally. “Montparnasse,” he says.

“Bossuet. Come in, come in.”

As Jehan follows him to the living room, overcome with the sensation of being in very familiar surroundings in a completely unfamiliar situation, they notice that Montparnasse’s demeanour has shifted. He’s holding himself a little differently and his eyes quickly scan the room as he steps inside. They can tell only half his attention is on the introductions.

Musichetta’s attention, however, is all on him. She seems to repress a smile before drawing to Jehan’s side for a moment.

“Good to see you, love,” she hums. “You alright?”

Jehan nods. They will be.

“Sit down wherever you fancy,” Joly invites warmly. “Tea, Montparnasse?”

“No thanks.” Somehow he seems even more alert sitting down.

There’s a pang of guilt in Jehan’s chest for putting him in this situation. Clearly he’s not comfortable.

“I’m getting strong get-it-over-with vibes,” Bossuet grins. “Shall we then?”

“Of course,” Joly nods. “Who’s starting?”

-

Jehan did say their friends worked in a hospital and they clearly weren’t kidding, Montparnasse is having some severe doctor’s appointment flashbacks. It’s the voice, the way of questioning. But both Joly and Bossuet are being very respectful. And they’re _trying_ not to talk over his head. Currently they’re failing a bit.

“I don’t know anybody on hormones that was taking in blood at the same time.”

“Hannah has a thyroid deficiency, she’s on medication.”

“True…”

Montparnasse glances over to where the woman called Musichetta is sitting. She’s the only vampire. Jehan did tell him, but it’s also quite obvious. She doesn’t hide her teeth when she smiles. Well, they are in her house. Or, their house, he should say. It’s quite clear that these three are some sort of equal triangle relationship. She hasn’t actually said a lot yet, it’s mostly been Bossuet and Joly. Who apparently have been Musichetta’s ghouls – _allies_ – for years.

Joly suddenly turns back towards him. “Just to be clear, you haven’t been experiencing anything negative so far, right?”

“Nothing,” Montparnasse replies.

“Must be alright then. For the time being at least,” Bossuet says.

“Probably,” Joly says, a little less convinced. “I’d like to discuss it with Ferre, though.”

Montparnasse looks at Jehan, they look a bit nervous, but they nod all the same.

“Combeferre is one of our other friends,” they explain. “He’s the oldest among us and he’s done a lot of research.”

Montparnasse makes a noncommittal noise.

“I can call him later,” Joly says. “You said you were fasting for a while anyway, so that’s alright.”

“Yeah, great,” Montparnasse says sarcastically and Jehans squeezes his arm sympathetically.

Bossuet flashes him a grin. “Don’t worry, even if it turns out you can’t drink full doses, there is time to figure that out. You’re very young.”

“I’m 22,” Montparnasse says pointedly.

“A baby,” Bossuet quips.

He looks him up and down critically. Bossuet is bald, but apart from laughter lines his face is free of any real show of age. “How old are _you_.”

“Forty-five.”

Montparnasse stares. “Shit.” He wouldn’t barely have guessed thirty.

“Perks my friend, perks,” Bossuet says with a wink.

“I’m forty-one,” Joly adds.

“You’re shitting me.”

They both grin and Montparnasse is suddenly very glad he didn’t know this. The blood stops you from aging. It doesn’t just heal you and make feel good, it honest-to-god keeps you _young_. Fucking hell. He sincerely doubts whether he could have kept his feelings for Jehan separate from how he feels about _that_ , if he had known this from the start.

Joly begins talking about food supplements and keeping healthy and Montparnasse is starting to feel like he’s back in health class at school.

“Are you a vegetarian?”

“Nope.”

“Ah, that makes things a bit easier,” Joly nods. “Red meat and spinach are your best friend.”

Montparnasse tries not to pull a face.

“Normally we talk at length about boundaries and keeping an eye on them,” Joly says. “But with Jehan-” He smiles. “-I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“Except you do,” Musichetta says kindly, leaning forward a bit in her chair. “You always do. Self-control is going to be an issue.”

“I know,” Jehan mutters beside him.

She smiles. “That’s not what I mean, honey. You’re not going to be tempted to drink too much, you’ve had decades to practice that. You’re going to be tempted to drink too often. Once a month isn’t a lot when you’re in a relationship.”

Jehan looks mortified. “ _Chetta_.”

“No, we’re having this talk,” she says decidedly and Montparnasse thinks Bossuet looks like he’s enjoying this a bit too much.

“With the right diet a person can adapt to losing blood every week, but that is an absolute maximum. And you really can’t take too much and have to start small, built it up over time. I’d advise sticking to a schedule, but I’m afraid that won’t be your style.”

Montparnasse nearly laughs at that.

“Chettaaa,” Jehan groans again, squirming.

“Learning to drink less than your fill so you can drink more often will be hard, old habits and all that, but there are more ways to go about it than biting and I do have some tricks that might help you figure that stuff out.”

She glances between Jehan and Montparnasse and smiles. “I think that can wait till later.”

“Thank you,” Jehan mutters.

Montparnasse smirks. Bossuet and Joly have been talking as if this is all a clinical thing, but Jehan is definitely reacting as if their mother just tried to give them sex tips. He wonders how old Musichetta is, she doesn’t look out of her twenties either. She’s very pretty actually.

“Ah, we forgot to talk about the sun,” Joly says, snapping their fingers. “I know you’re not going to do the warding yet, but when you do, having sunglasses and sunscreen on hand just in case might be good. Everyone reacts differently and some people suddenly get very sensitive.”

“Should we write some of this down?” Bossuet mutters.

“We _should_.” Joly gets to his feet. “Honestly, we should make a checklist. Perhaps we can schedule a class at the ABC. I mean, Jehan comes and asks us, others might not.”

“I should have looked into this stuff way sooner,” Jehan sighs.

“You’re looking into it now,” Musichetta says warmly. “Most of us make this stuff up as we go along, love, don’t worry.”

Montparnasse listens to them chatter, his mind wandering a bit. It sounds like they are an actual community. He thinks back to the community centre. That must be what Joly means with ‘ABC’. A community of vampire. But, vampires like Jehan and Musichetta. And their overly cheerful, doctor-voiced partners. It sounds…preppy. But it doesn’t sound bad. And when he thinks of Faunt, making themself smaller and smaller in their chair while Babet talks about vampires and Claquesous does his level best to avoid the word he does wonder…

But that can come later. First things first. He needs to meet the 30-year roommate of the person he wants to date and he needs to find some way to explain to Éponine that her pet dweeb managed to get himself turned into a creature of the night. The last is going to take some serious diplomacy on his part. As for the first, he rather wonders if Grantaire is as pretty as Jehan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we're getting to that Good Vampire Community stuff~
> 
> Dutch 101:  
> “Tering” is a swear that can be used in the same negative and positive ways as “fuck”, but the direct translation is “typhoid”, the Dutch do love their disease-swears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lark 💜

Grantaire, as it turns out, is not as pretty as Jehan. But between good hair, strong hands, and lazy sort of crooked grin that very rarely leaves his face, Montparnasse admits he has plenty to work with. Jehan clearly dotes on him in any case.

“I can see why you kept hiding him,” Grantaire smirks after a first introduction and something that could possibly pass as small talk. “You just wanted to keep him to yourself.”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow at him. Jehan has not been terribly coherent explaining the details of their personal life. Trying to put things in words seems to fluster them and them getting flustered is quite frankly too endearing and distracting to push very hard, but he _has_ managed to find out that Jehan and Grantaire are definitely in a relationship. Just not the same kind of relationship they’re looking to have with him. Apparently Jehan was the one that turned Grantaire, during some sort of emergency. But for some reason neither of them seems to see the blood drinking and bed sharing that they do as even close to the same thing that he and Jehan share.

Well, when you just keep on living he can imagine you’ll end up having to be a bit more creative with your emotional life. Grantaire has a boyfriend though and he’s clearly enjoying teasing Jehan with the prospect of them being in the same position.

“It’s nice,” Grantaire hums. “To finally put a face to the reason they came home swooning.”

Jehan glares and Montparnasse smirks. He likes Grantaire better already.

-

Watching Grantaire trying to rile up Montparnasse and getting nothing but sarcasm in return until they’re locked in some twisted sort of battle of wits is doing something odd to the inside of Jehan’s chest. The unguarded grin on R’s face, fangs clearly showing, and Parnasse’s posture relaxing into an elegant sprawl on the couch. They don’t even know how to describe the feeling, they just know they feel just about ready to either laugh apropos of nothing or maybe even cry.

“Hold up,” Montparnasse interrupts himself mid-sentence. “What the hell is _that_?”

Grantaire looks at the pile of stuff on the floor Montparnasse pointed at. “Clothes, junk, my Walkman?”

“ _Walkman_.” Montparnasse actually gets up from the couch to inspect it and makes an outrageously amused sound. “Are there actual _tapes_ in it?”

“Cassettes,” Grantaire corrects snarkily.

Montparnasse’s green eyes spark with half-malicious amusement. “You’re _ancient_.”

“Says the man doing it with a hippie.”

Jehan pulls a face. “Yeah thanks, R.”

Montparnasse was hallway through a scoffing noise when his expression suddenly changes. He turns around, looking from Grantaire, slumped in his chair to Jehan. They smile at him. “Wait,” he says slowly. “You mean that literally, don’t you?”

Grantaire’s grin is so wide it would be wolfish if it wasn’t so delighted. “You never _asked_?”

Montparnasse makes an indignant noise. “Not like I was gonna care, was I!”

“Looks like you care now,” Grantaire crows. He thrusts out a hand, waving at Jehan. “Look at your b—at him being all scandalised!”

Be that as it may, they’re very relieved he doesn’t actually look upset. Jehan glances up at Montparnasse and he joins them on the couch again. They can just see the doubt in the sideways glance he gives them.

“Born in 1945,” they say with a faint smile.

He stares at them for a moment while he lets that sink in. “ _Tering,_ that’s- that’s the end of the second world war!”

They laugh. He looks a little weirded out, which is no more than natural. As long as he doesn’t freak himself about it it’s alright. “I know. Chetta tells me I didn’t miss anything worth living through.”

Montparnasse makes a frantic noise, drowned out by another burst of laughter from Grantaire.

-

“Alright, point fucking taken, I should have asked about this before.” Montparnasse shakes his head. “I need a drink.”

He fully intends to demand a full rundown on everyone’s birth dates now, starting with Grantaire. But if he has to come to grips with the fact that Jehan is over _seventy_ years old and that they are one of the _younger_ ones of their group, he’d rather not do it completely sober.

He looks from Jehan to Grantaire. “…do you guys have anything to drink around here?”

Grantaire tips his head to the side, giving him a very particular grin. “ _Well_ …”

Jehan’s foot lashes out and they kick against his chair, their eyes wide. But Montparnasse has begun to recognise the pleasant insincerity hidden in Grantaire’s expressions and merely gives him a scoff.

“You wish.”

“As a matter of fact,” Jehan says with emphasis, sliding off the couch and straightening up to their not very considerable height. “I _do_ have things to drink for you.” They count on pale fingers: “I have beer and juice and red wine.”

The look on their face is so delighted Montparnasse has to fight down a stupidly fond expression. Grantaire is looking at him too closely to be quite so unguarded.

“What kind of beer?” he asks.

“Heineken,” Jehan says. “That’s the only one I recognised.”

Right, Americans. He smiles at Jehan’s eagerly shining eyes. “I’d love a glass of wine, Vogeltje.”

He watches them go as they bounce towards what must be a very rarely used kitchen and when he turns his head back Grantaire is looking at him with an expression that Montparnasse is pretty sure means two things: he didn’t keep his own expression in check very well, and Grantaire has decided to approve of him.

\---

If Courfeyrac’s feelings are hurt that he isn’t the first of their friends to hear the full story, he is far too excited to mention it. Jehan would have told him in private before telling Enj and Ferre, but they honestly don’t quite trust their nerves to carry them through telling the story even once. And also they need Grantaire to be there. For reasons.

Right now those reasons are that they are tucked against his side while Courfeyrac gushes and Enjolras and Combeferre exchange thoughtful looks.

“So he actually asked _you_ ,” Courfeyrac beams. “How lovely. The times we live in, honestly.”

“It is a little unusual that he won’t say how he’s familiar with the community,” Combeferre says.

“He isn’t though,” Grantaire argues. “He’s familiar with vampires.”

 _One_ vampire. Jehan does wonder about that themself. But they don’t want to force Parnasse to talk about it. They both have a loft of secrets.

That’s one thing they agreed they’d be working on from now on.

“Well, I think you’re handling it very carefully,” Combeferre says.

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees and Jehan is relieved. Enjolras never likes the idea of taking wards.

“Waiting six months should be more than sufficient to be sure of his being free of any call of the blood,” Ferre nods.

“And it will give you time to evaluate your relationship,” Courfeyrac says warmly.

“I’m glad you spoke to Joly and Bossuet,” Enjolras mutters.

Combeferre nods again. “Perhaps we should speed up their idea of organising ally meetings.”

The energy in the room shifts immediately. “ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras says emphatically. “And open them up to _prospective_ allies.”

Courfeyrac’s face falls a little. “That’s how we get found out, Enj.”

“Clearly there’s humans that already know,” Enjolras says, gesturing passionately to Jehan. “Would you bar Jehan’s new partner from our meetings because he isn’t blood-dependent _enough_ yet?”

“That’s not what he’s saying and you know it,” Combeferre interrupts calmly.

Jehan is still flustered by the use of the word partner and resolutely keeps their mouth shut. Enjolras has been talking about wanting to extend the definition of the term “ally” to include genuine human allies for a long time now, and they would rather not get caught up in this discussion. They feel Enj’s wish for a truly integrated community, but they were all turned and raised in secrecy.

All elders remember the bad old days, when there were hunters in every city and even vampires that never touched a human being were not safe.

“But you agree Montparnasse should be allowed to come.”

The mention of his name forces Jehan back into the conversation and they glance nervously from Enj to Ferre as he says:

“Yes, considering the circumstances that seems no more than reasonable.”

Enjolras looks satisfied. “I don’t want any of you to feel unsafe, ever,” he says earnestly. “But if this community has an opportunity to extend its welcome, I think we should take it.”

“Just to make sure,” Grantaire suddenly speaks up. “What we’re doing right now is all being _very_ on board with Jehan’s new relationship and asking when he can come over for tea, so we can all meet and interrogate him.”

Enjolras gives him an exasperated look, that is met with an unapologetic wink, but both are trumped by Courfeyrac’s squeal of agreement.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says. “Oh Jehan, we’re sorry, we shouldn’t be talking like this. This is very exciting and I’m so happy for you!”

He reaches out to take their hands for a moment and Jehan laughs, giving him a squeeze back. Well, on the whole this is going loads better than they had worried it would. No one has scolded them, not even Combeferre, who is never unkind, but very vocal when it comes to what he sees as unacceptable behaviour. But they cannot quite drop the subject just yet.

“We – um – we do still have to talk with Marius.”

Courfeyrac’s expression sobers a little. “Yes,” he says. “I understand the problem of lying to one’s friends, truly. But I don’t like the idea of this girl Éponine just being told like that.”

“All the more reason to allow her to get over here as well,” Enjolras says.

Combeferre shakes his head.

Jehan very much doubts whether Montparnasse will consider anyone’s permission necessary to tell Éponine about Marius. From what they’ve understood she’s his oldest friend and it sounds like she’s very close to Marius. Her finding out is probably just a matter of time if Marius doesn’t break with her completely.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras are still arguing, in the spirited way of two people who know that they’re ultimately working towards the same goal.

“I think it is more up to Marius than any of us,” Combeferre interjects. “Especially since he also knows Montparnasse already.”

Jehan nods. “Parnasse did want to talk to him first.”

“Perfect,” Enjolras agrees. “There’s a meeting this Wednesday. Marius will be there, why not just invite Montparnasse to come too?”

Jehan swallows. This is all going very fast. “Okay,” they mutter. “I’ll ask him.” And they pull out their phone.

Enjolras looks very pleased. That makes them feel a little better at least. He’s practically lighting up the room.

-

Montparnasse is struggling with a pair of jeans in a dressing room when his phone buzzes. He leans against the wall of the cubicle for a moment and opens the message.

 **Vogeltje** : Just talked to my friends

 **Vogeltje** : They say hi

 **Vogeltje** : They want to invite you to come to the meeting the day after tomorrow

Montparnasse frowns slightly at his phone. Just because he’s decided to give this relationship thing a shot, doesn’t mean he needs to be meeting every single person they know within a week.

He hesitates.

 **Parnasse** : do you want me to come?

Jehan’s answer is not immediate.

 **Vogeltje** : If you want to.

He glances up at the earlier text. _They_ want to invite you. Right.

 **Parnasse** : honestly, I’d rather pass.

 **Parnasse** : for now

The second one is hastily added and Jehan had already begun typing their answer before he sent it.

 **Vogeltje** : Alright <3

There is no other message after that and for a long moment Montparnasse wonders if he has misjudged this situation. But even if Jehan really would prefer him to come along… This is a lot. He wants to talk to Éponine first. And he still has to figure out what the hell to tell the guys. After another moment of very uncomfortable uncertainty, he grits his teeth and sends:

 **Parnasse** : what about Pontmercy?

This time they answer immediately.

 **Vogeltje** : Working on it x

Alright then. With a sigh he puts his phone away again and looks around the cubicle in annoyance. He needs something better than this to properly lift his spirits.

\---

If they’re being completely honest, Jehan is rather relieved that Montparnasse said no. Especially since Enjolras clearly has quite some expectations of him that they’re pretty sure are not going to go down well.

Enjolras is still grappling with the fact that Montparnasse turned down their invitation just like that.

“Surely he can see this is important!”

“Give him some time, mon ami,” Courf tuts.

“Please invite him over to ours on Friday,” Grantaire mutters by Jehan’s ear. “I _need_ to see the two of them in one room.”

“ _You_ are _not_ helping,” Jehan hisses and they speak up:

“I can just ask Marius if he wants to meet with him. I’m pretty sure Parnasse has his number anyway. It’s not like we get to control who talks to who.”

Courfeyrac immediately agrees, but looks unhappy, and Enjolras looks like he’s about to start arguing again. Jehan really cannot stand this kind of barely under the surface conflict. Outbursts are waves you can ride back to calm seas, but this is awful. They look pleadingly at Grantaire.

“Hey Enj, Enj, would you come here for a sec?”

And while Enjolras lets himself be persuaded into a muttered, cuddly conversation on the couch, Jehan slips away from R’s side. To quickly assure Courf it will all be okay, before climbing the stairs in search of Marius, who is probably reading in his room.

\---

To Montparnasse’s surprise Pontmercy doesn’t want Jehan or any of his other friends to be present during their meeting. And he actually shows up at the decided on a tram station near Éponine’s place. Montparnasse has considered arranging this at his place, but that would probably just make things more awkward. It’s already far from comfortable as he pushes through the six pm crowd to Marius’ recognisable don’t-look-at-me slouch.

“Pontmercy,” he calls his attention.

Marius looks up at him and nods. When he last followed him, Montparnasse didn’t see him this up close and he does look different. His light-brown skin has a paleness to it that seems slightly more than a lack of sunlight and something about his eyes is…different.

“Ponine is expecting us,” he says gruffly.

She’s also expecting _him_ , of course, and he’ll have to explain not just Marius, but all of it. She’s probably going to be pretty pissed off. He’s not looking forward to it.

And, he tells himself stubbornly, it is Marius’ fault that he has to tell her annoying in the first place. If it hadn’t been for him, this whole vampire thing would have stayed firmly within _his_ private life and he would not have been obliged to share it. And _another_ thing, if Marius- if Marius—

Montparnasse glares at him.

“If you hurt Éponine or get her hurt, I will personally kill you and dump your body in the canal.”

Marius looks back at him. “If that happens, I’ll spare you the trouble.”

Montparnasse gives him a long, even stare. There, in the depth of Marius expression is an edge of dark concern that reminds him uncomfortably of Jehan’s.

“Now that’s just selfish, Pontmercy,” he hums stand-offishly. “Come on.” And he leads the way to Éponine’s building, hoping very hard that she will get her anger over with quickly.

\---

Éponine does not get angry, which is as big a surprise to Montparnasse as the fact that she doesn’t try to tell them they’re insane. In fact she doesn’t try to tell them anything. She listens to him talk and she watches Marius explain and show off his teeth with an unnerving degree of composure.

She doesn’t yell at him, or even Marius. In fact she says very little, listening to everything with an expression that goes through stunned, bewildered and indignant until finally settling on something that Montparnasse has to conclude is…exasperation?

“You know what you are-” she says finally, ignoring him completely in favour of fixing a pair of dark, frowning eyes on Marius. “-you are an _idiot_.” She gets up, stops hallway on her way to Marius and says, nearly disgruntled: “Can I hug you again now?”

Marius makes a pathetically relieved sound and Montparnasse turns away as Éponine wraps him up in a tight hug, muttering something resentful and no doubt sickeningly affectionate under her breath. He can’t really help but hear Marius though, cause he’s babbling and not even trying to keep his voice down.

“I’m sorry, Ponine- I didn’t mean to, I just- what if I had hurt you?”

“As if, Marius.”

“I’m serious, Éponine. _Look_ at me.”

“So you’ve got a set of fangs and icicles for fingers now, big deal.”

“…I was so scared you’d- you’d hate me for it.”

Montparnasse really wishes he hadn’t heard that. Especially because Éponine’s voice goes awfully soft and gentle as she answers:

“For _what_ , Marius? You didn’t ask for this. And you didn’t do anything wrong.” She huffs. “You know, except for ghosting me. Wrong bloody mythological creature. Never do that again.”

Marius laughs and hugs her again and Montparnasse decides to go to the kitchen in search of something distracting to eat or drink. He’s glad he doesn’t run into any of Éponine’s housemates, he doesn’t have the patience right now.

When he comes back Éponine and Marius are sitting on her bed, Éponine wrapped in a fleece plaid and then in Marius arms. He seems to be trying to catch her up on the last couple months of his life, while intermittently tying to apologise to her again.

“ _Kappen nou_ , Marius,” she scolds with an affectionate shove when he tries again. “And back the fuck up. Cause your Courfeyrac person being a vampire all along, that’s fair enough, I mean you did say he tried to send you a _letter_ after you met him. But you’re telling me there’s an entire _club_ of them? That’s crazy.”

The shy laugh escaping from Marius’ throat shows a flash of fangs and instantly makes him look less grey. “You’re telling me.”

Éponine laughs out loud, shaking her head, and shifts her weight to jostle him a little. “Kay, go on with your story.”

“Eh, so this guy brings out this pig’s blood in like… _Tupperware_.”

“They _what_.”

“Yeah, I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Insane.”

“Right?”

“At least give you a straw or something,” Éponine says decidedly. While she talks her eyes drift up to meet Montparnasse’s and she looks at him with a unspoken gratitude that goes deep enough for him to feel it his chest.

She looks so relieved. And Marius, Marius looks more like his old self. His annoying, endlessly waxing-on, Éponine-befriending self. And they’re sitting there on her bed as if nothing has changed.

…maybe he should meet Jehan’s friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intricate workings of immortal relationships are one of my favourite things of this universe and I would just like to say that no amount of enjoltaire or jehanparnasse will disturb Jehan and R's platonic soulmateness
> 
> Dutch 101:  
> It was downright shocking to me when I found out Heineken is considered a cool brand abroad. Over here it’s commonly referred to as “ditchwater”.
> 
> “Kappen nou” is a slightly firmer version of “cut it out”.


	10. Chapter 10

Sleeping next to Jehan is as strange as it is lovely.

To be fair, Montparnasse hasn’t slept next anyone he didn’t sleep _with_ since he was a teenager, but he hardly thinks that’s relevant right now. Because lying tangled up with Jehan in a nest of several duvets and hot water bottles is very probably beyond comparison. They’re cuddly, _very_ cuddly, and it’s a not their coldness that poses a problem – not with all the preparations they made for their bed – but rather the fact that they seem to forget he needs to breathe and keep his circulation going.

The previous night had been busy. He still won’t go to what Éponine has now officially dubbed “the vamp illuminati”, but last night he agreed to come along to meet a few more of Jehan’s friends. They had been so happy. Just like they had been overjoyed, genuinely emotional, about Marius and Éponine. Their friend Courfeyrac – who Montparnasse feels obligated to like at least a little, on account of his excellent clothes – apparently felt the same way. He had thanked Montparnasse for helping Marius, something he silently rather resented, because he was helping Éponine. Courfeyrac had also declared that he was quite prepared to love Éponine, solely because she seemed to have cured Marius of most of his melancholy. As far as Montparnasse is concerned _one_ vampire soppily doting on his best friend more than enough. But he’s relieved too, to see Éponine cheerful again. And it has the added bonus that they get to bitch about the weird vampire club.

Because it’s definitely weird. One of Jehan’s friends, a loud blond with brilliant blue eyes that to his mild shock turned out to be Grantaire’s boyfriend, had told him several times he ought to come. But as cool as a secret vampire gathering seems on the _surface_ , the reality of it sounds increasingly lame.

Still, it hadn’t been a bad crowd. Musichetta and Bossuet had been there too and Grantaire was good fun, like usual. And even better, R had stayed behind after Jehan asked Montparnasse if he would like to come back to their place, which meant they had all the space and undisturbed time to practise having fun without Jehan getting _too_ hungry.

The sun had been up for a good while when they finally fell asleep.

That probably is part of why it takes Montparnasse a full few seconds of complete disorientation before he understands what’s going on when the alarm goes on his phone. He’s wrapped up in softness and complete darkness, with soft, cool arms wound around him.

He stirs, blindly groping for the screaming phone and against him Jehan groans and pulls him closer. He manages to unearth his phone from under one of the pillows and turns the alarm off. Five o’clock. Damn. His shift starts at six, and it’s further to travel from Jehan’s place.

Reluctantly he tries to sit up, but Jehan makes a whining noise of protest that tests his work ethic _severely_.

“I have work in an hour,” he groans.

“No, stay,” they plead drowsily, and sinking back into the darkness suddenly becomes a lot more attractive as Montparnasse feels Jehan nuzzle against his neck.

“You’re so warm,” they sigh.

He hums weakly and Jehan presses a little closer.

“And you _smell_ nice.”

-

It’s a damn miracle that he isn’t late for work, but Claquesous isn’t even there yet when he arrives. Kruideniers is talking to Marion, who is laughing politely. All things considered Montparnasse is feeling more than generous enough to go and rescue her, but before he has reached his counter Gueulemer appears in the back door and waves him over.

“Evening.”

Gueulemer nods, but instead of answering he gestures vaguely towards Montparnasse’s face.

“What?” Montparnasse demands.

“Lipstick,” Gueul mutters.

“Shit.” Montparnasse pushes past him to hurry to the bathroom. Better get rid of that before Sous sees and loses his shit again.

Gueulemer trails after him, lingering near the doorway while Montparnasse scrubs at the smudges of lipstick just under his jaw and near his ear. He missed those.

“So,” Gueulemer begins.

“Don’t you start,” Montparnasse grunts.”

“You’re still seeing them then?” he continues stubbornly.

“Yes,” Montparnasse rolls his eys. “We’re…dating. I guess. But not _dating_ -dating. Yet.”

Gueulemer nods. He’s not terribly good at looking nonchalant, it usually ends up looking like he’s bored, but Montparnasse recognises the expression.

“What,” he sighs again.

“You want a relationship with them?” Gueul’s face is carefully free of judgement. He _is_ pretty good at that.

Montparnasse stares back at him for a moment. “…yes.”

Once again Gueulemer nods, but this time with a decided sort of understanding. “Bring them over.”

“ _What?_ ”

Gueul snorts. “Word of the week, is it? I said bring them over some evening. Introduce them.”

“No fucking way,” Montparnasse splutters. “Sous’s gonna—”

“That’s exactly why,” Gueulemer interrupts. “I’m not dealing with Sous and Faunt stomping around like they’re doing now for however long it takes you to get your shit together. Gotta cut it off now. So bring the vampire over.”

“Don’t call them that,” Montparnasse snaps, but he honestly has a point.

“Well give me their sodding name then,” Gueul retorts.

“…Jehan.”

“Jehan,” Gueulemer nods. “Tell them they’re invited next time we’re getting together at mine.” His face relaxes into a lazy smile. “I’ll cook.”

\---

It’s so, _so_ difficult to behave. The easiest, most natural way to show their appreciation of Montparnasse seems to be to touch him. Under his searching eyes what they feel is suddenly hard to put into words, and looks and smiles alone are not enough. Not by far.

But when they touch him – and he never flinches at the coldness of their fingers anymore – they can feel the gratified energy cracking on his skin. When they kiss him, they can hear his heart skip and pick up speed. He always kisses back, they hardly ever manage to stop at one kiss. And then his human heart is racing and the smell of his blood seems to grow stronger with every beat, until no perfume or lipstick can drown it out.

And Montparnasse…Montparnasse is— well, right this second he is trying to pin them to the mattress, the struggle of it making his heart thump and his eyes shine.

Jehan feels their desire wrap tight around their throat for a moment and they gasp hastily:

“Parnasse, stop- stop for a minute.”

He gets off them immediately, concerned rather than frustrated, and Jehan makes an effort to smile and breathe “Thank you,” before closing their eyes to will their hunger back down.

When they open their eyes again Montparnasse is lying next to them, but with a bit of distance between them on the bed. He has his head elegantly propped up on one arm and he’s watching them with his hair falling slightly in front of his eyes. Half-dressed as he is, he looks like a picture of dishevelled style.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” they smile weakly.

“You _can_ stop me sooner, you know,” he hums when they look at him.

“Yeah…”

A grin slides onto his face. “But you don’t want to.”

“I really, really don’t,” Jehan confirms.

He laughs. Such a lovely, deeply melodic sound. “Mmm, how long still?”

“Three months, two weeks and five days.”

He laughs again. “How many seconds?”

Jehan groans and reaches out for him and Montparnasse immediately closes the gap between them again. He presses a slow kiss on their lips, the racing heart replaced by a steady beat. When he pulls away he’s nearly smiling, but then suddenly he looks thoughtful.

Jehan waits, looking up at him silently. He’ll tell them if it’s something he wants to share.

“Vogeltje…”

They feel a faint spark of nerves, he sounds concerned.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Montparnasse grimaces. He lies down close to them and begins again. “I was thinking, my work friends are getting together this Monday. Would you like to come?”

The burst of joy they feel is followed by even more nerves. “And- and they know, right?”

“Yeah…” Montparnasse’s eyes search their face attentively. “They might not…” He sighs and sits up. “I want them to meet you. If they could see you, see us, they’d understand.”

Jehan can see the unspoken “I hope” in his eyes. They know some of his friends have a problem with them, or rather with what they are.

“Gueul invited you,” Montparnasse says. “And he means it. It’s at his place.”

They smile. “That’s real decent of him.” They push themself up on their elbows. “You’ve been great, meeting my friends. And I really want to get to know yours. I don’t want to cause trouble between you all…but I’d love to come.”

There’s a flash of relief on Montparnasse’s face and he sits up, putting a hand on their leg. “Alright. Cool. But then, there’s some things you have to know.”

Jehan sits up fully as well, their courage rising with all their affection. He wants to look out for them, they can tell.

“Lay it on me,” they smile.

\---

For once in his life he arrives genuinely early and Montparnasse is annoyingly aware of it. It doesn’t help that Gueulemer answers the door grinning like an annoying sibling. But Montparnasse can’t even manage a suitably sneering response, he just watches with something that is dangerously close to anxiety how Gueul holds out his hand to Jehan.

“Good to have you,” he says with a nod. “Gueulemer.”

Jehan smiles a nervous, closed-lipped smile. “Jehan.” They shake his hand a little when he doesn’t flinch. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Course,” Gueul grins, motioning them further into the apartment.

Montparnasse suddenly regrets being early. He had wanted to arrive before Sous and Faunt of course, give Jehan the opportunity to do this in stages, but now they have to _wait_.

Gueulemer seems very pleased with this however, he’s watching Jehan with a subdued sort of delight. “Has Parnasse shown you the shop downstairs?”

Montparnasse grimaces and Jeahn glances at him smilingly.

“No… He thought your boss might be there.”

Gueul snorts. “He’s not usually this much of a coward.”

Montparnasse glares.

“Then again,” Gueulemer hums. “You _are_ the first person he’s ever bothered to introduce to us.”

Jehan’s smile widens a little, but before they can answer an alarm goes in the kitchen.

“Gotta check the oven,” Gueulemer hums and he disappears into the kitchen. “No worries,” he calls over his shoulder. “I have beef for you and Faunt.”

It’s a flash, just a split second, but Montparnasse saw Jehan’s eyes widen in surprise. They look at him, oddly flustered. “Did he mean he has blood for me?” they whisper.

Montparnasse nods, gesturing to the table on the other end of the room. He is seriously beginning to suspect that Gueul has always wanted to do this. The small table has a damn table cloth on it, and it’s set with three plates and two bowls.

Jehan blinks at the table and glances towards the kitchen. “That’s so nice of him…”

They sound genuinely emotional and Montparnasse does not quite know what to say, so he squeezes their hand and tugs them towards the kitchen, where Gueulemer is taking a dish out of the oven that definitely contains too much chicken for three people to eat. Montparnasse is about to say something about it when Jehan lets go of his hand and wanders towards the cooktop, where a large pot with a lid on it has been placed over a low flame.

They inhale deeply and look over to Gueulemer in astonishment. “You’re heating it?”

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t be much of a host if I served your food straight out of the fridge, would I?”

Joy twists in Montparnasse’s stomach when he sees the appreciation dawn on Jehan’s face.

“Well, you’re a _great_ host,” they say warmly, that same emotional edge to the look in their eyes.

Gueulemer grins and Montparnasse makes a mental note to give Gueul a pass the next time he does something easy to riff on. And then the doorbell rings and the nerves he forgot for a moment rush back.

“I’ll get it,” Gueul says and he hurries out of the kitchen.

Montparnasse resolutely shoves all his uncertainty down and out of sight and smiles at Jehan.

-

Jehan understands now. They do. It doesn’t make being stared at and barely spoken to any less uncomfortable, but they do understand. Because Montparnasse’s vampire friend Fauntleroy looks way too young and way too modern to be turned under healthy circumstances. Claquesous, who seems closer to Gueulemer in age than to Montparnasse, sticks to their side like a protective older brother. That’s pretty much what Parnasse had told them it would be like. As it is, Claquesous has barely spoken, but has likewise barely taken his eyes of Jehan and Fauntleroy has hardly looked at them at all.

To call the atmosphere around the table ‘tense’ would be on par with saying that Grantaire is quite fond of Enjolras. Montparnasse looks defensive and worried and while Jehan can’t read Gueulemer’s expressions well enough to know what he’s feeling, his stubborn hospitable chatter while he serves them all their food is rather telling.

“Thank you,” they say softly when he fills the bowl in front of them with a few ladles of warm blood. They don’t really like drinking animal blood, although of course they’ve had to do it over the course of their unlife. But the thought of a human going through the trouble of buying blood and _preparing_ it for them is so touching they are not about to object.

Fauntleroy seems far more used to this treatment, they’re capable of keeping their scowling expression even with a serving of fragrant blood in front of them, and it occurs to Jehan that this must be exactly why Gueulemer is so accommodating. Montparnasse doesn’t know ‘vampires’ he knows one vampire. One vampire, who won’t look at them, but who looks like a teenager and who is surrounded by humans.

Jehan pauses with their hands resting on either side of the warm bowl. Whatever happened to Fauntleroy, it never should have been allowed to happen. “Would you prefer I leave?”

They’re mildly surprised when they hear themself say it, but once they have they keep going.

“Because if that’s what you want, I understand, and I will.”

Claquesous’ dark eyes were fixed on them already, in silent suspicion, but this is the first time Fauntleroy meets their eyes. They look soft, with their blue hair and their neon hoodie, but their expression is so resentful Jehan expects to feel it physically stabbing at them.

Instead they don’t feel a thing and Jehan feel a wave of pity and concern. Fauntleroy’s blood must not be strong enough for them to even feel the potential of their Presence.

“I can see as well as the next person that our community hurt you,” they say, quiet but steady. “You’re not obligated to get along with me and while I really appreciate the invitation-” They smile at Gueulemer. “-I’d rather leave than force you into a vampire's company.”

“I don’t give a fuck that you’re a vampire,” Fauntleroy suddenly spits. “But you—” They glare at Montparnasse, whose shoulders have tensed up with repressed temper.

Fauntleroy shuts their mouth abruptly and Gueulemer heaves a heavy sigh. “Do you really think they’d be here if they wanted to hurt Parnasse?”

“I’m not even drinking from them right now,” Montparnasse burst out. “You can _smell_ that.”

Claquesous’ expression wavers for just a moment of surprise. He looks at Fauntleroy and Jehan can see the reluctance on Fauntleroy’s face when they give a nod of confirmation.

“Why?” Claquesous demands.

Jehan hesitates, glancing at Montparnasse. He looks pissed off, but also closer to anxious than they have ever seen him.

“Because we’re still figuring this shit out,” he grunts. “And they didn’t want their blood to—” He waves his hand vaguely.

Fauntleroy stares at him for a moment and fixes Jehan with a heavy stare.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Jehan says softly, to them more than to any of the others. “Ever.”

Their expression stays frozen. “Have you ever turned someone?”

“Once,” Jehan answers frankly. “Because I thought he would die. But I never drank from him, while he was alive. Not once.”

Fauntleroy regards them suspiciously.

“You can meet him,” they offer. “We still live together. When he’s not staying with his boyfriend.”

A touch of uncertainty has slipped onto the young face and Jehan can feel something shifting in the room’s energy. Claquesous is watching Fauntleroy now more than he is watching them.

“Ever ghouled someone?” they demand.

Jehan nearly flinches at the way they spit that awful word. “No, I—we don’t say ghoul—”

“Same fucking difference.”

“Fine. I haven’t,” Jehan replies firmly. “Montparnasse is the closest I’ve ever come to that. Which is why we stopped sharing.”

“Don’t remind me,” Montparnasse groans, resting his chin on his fist.

Fauntleroy looks at him, clearly thrown, and he frowns back at them. More ruffled annoyance than actual disapproval on his face.

“Yeah, you think it’s all evil and seduction and meanwhile I’m being given _health classes_.”

Jehan smiles in spite of themself. “You like Joly,” they tease. “No one _dislikes_ Joly.”

Montparnasse gives them a very particular look. “If he bothers me about _appelstroop_ one more time I’m willing to be the first,” he says darkly and they nearly laugh out loud.

“Oh my _god_.”

Jehan looks at Fauntleroy and is met with a stare of mortified realisations. Well, it’s a lot better than the resentment. “What?” they ask.

“You’re part of the scouts!” They look at Claquesous in horror and then back at them. “You _are_ , aren’t you? You’re part of Myriel’s damn Vampire Woodchucks.”

“You know Myriel?” Jehan blurts out in astonishment.

Fauntleroy lets out a groan and plants their forehead on the table.

“Yeah,” Claquesous says. “We know him.” He meets Jehan’s eyes with a much less hostile demeanour than he did before and after a moment he adds, albeit a little stiffly: “He helped us.”

Us. Right. Jehan guessed as much. Between what Montparnasse has muttered at them and the way they use the word ghoul, it’s not very hard to guess what happened to Claquesous. How awful.

“Just for the record,” they say. “We’re not scouts. We just run a community centre.”

Claquesous glances at Montparnasse. “That gives health classes apparently.”

Montparnasse gives him a foul look, but Jehan has the distinct impression this is an improvement. Gueulemer seems to think so at least, because he relaxes in his chair and speaks up grumpily:

“If you let my food grow any colder there will be no more cooking from me.”

There is an immediate response of attention being shifted to their food and Jehan smiles their warmest smile at him, fangs and all. Gueulemer’s expression softens just enough to notice and one corner of his mouth quirks up as he takes up his own fork.

-

Somehow, astonishingly, Jehan seems to have managed to find a way to pacify both Fauntleroy and Claquesous in one go. Even Fauntleroy can’t seem to withstand so much kindness and patience directed their way and Claquesous is warming up to them simply by virtue of the way they treat Faunt.

After the dinner Gueulemer takes an absolutely unnecessarily long time to clear everything away, leaving Montparnasse by Jehan’s side and Sous by Faunt’s while the two vampires talk. Jehan is carefully avoiding to ask Fauntleroy any personal questions, but they do explain how they live and what exactly the ABC does.

Fauntleroy reacts with their characteristic derision and sarcasm, but they don’t seem angry anymore. And a whole lot less suspicious.

The more they talk, the more Montparnasse feels Jehan’s emotions rising to the surface. They want to help, he can tell. And all he can do is hope they don’t offer too blatantly.

“I’m sure you know this,” they say after a while. “But, human blood gives us more strength than animal blood.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want it,” Fauntleroy says firmly.

Jehan watches them with kind eyes. “Perfectly valid choice, my roommate doesn’t drink from humans either, but—”

“Why do you drink from humans,” Faunt interrupts, but while they do sound challenging, there’s no venom in their voice anymore.

Jehan hesitates for half a beat, before stealing a smiling glance in his direction, meeting Montparnasse’s eyes. “Cause of humans like him.”

Claquesous snorts softly and Fauntleroy makes a noise of juvenile disgust.

“What were you going to say?” Claquesous suddenly asks. “About drinking.”

Jehan smiles at him and then looks back at Fauntleroy. “I just wanted to mention, there are people that donate blood for us to drink. Not enough to do it regularly. But when you need. If you need some extra strength. Or you got hurt. That sort of thing.”

Fauntleroy wrinkles their nose, but Montparnasse can see that Sous is taking this information to heart.

“And you don’t have to go to the vampire community for it, if you don’t want,” Jehan says. “Have you ever heard of Sanquin?”

“The blood bank?” Claquesous frowns.

Fauntleroy doesn’t answer. They look just a little too conscious as far as Montparnasse is concerned though.

“Yes,” Jehan nods. “They have a, let’s call it a department, that is aware of our existence. Not all vampires trust them, of course, but some of my friends work with them and they’ve helped us out in the past.”

Claquesous does not look easy with this idea, not at all, and Fauntleroy glances at him uncertainly before shaking their head.

“It’s just so you know,” Jehan says softly. “You have options. You don’t need…us. But you don’t have to do it alone either. And I mean you all of you, plural.”

Faunt looks up, their brown eyes resting on Jehan for a long, conflicted moment. “Kay,” they mutter, and then, nearly inaudible: “Thanks.”

Under the table, Jehan squeezes Montparnasse’s hand so hard he has to bow his head to hide his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord I was nervous about this chapter, luckily I had Carribean Gueul to carry me through. (And my beta, thank you sis <3)
> 
> Dutch 101:
> 
> “Appelstroop” is basically apple boiled down and concentrated until you get a sort of molasses/treacle. It’s a popular spread for on bread in the Netherlands and Belgium and it’s considered an easy way to sneak more iron into your children’s diets, because it contains more of it than most other bread toppings. (What I’m saying is that Joly has given up on trying to get Parnasse to eat more spinach and he’s trying the children’s method).


	11. Chapter 11

Jehan is just filling a large glass with the contents of a blood bag when Grantaire walks into the kitchen and hums curiously.

“I’ve been wondering about that,” he says. “Did Montparnasse ask you not to drink from anyone else while you guys are doing your cleanse?”

“No…” Jehan licks a spilled drop off their finger. “I mean, we did talk about it.”

Grantaire leans against the counter, head slanted. “You talked about it but he didn’t ask you to?”

They make a vague noise. “We did say we were gonna try, you know, being exclusive? It just- for the eating—” They look at Grantaire with a shy sort of guilt in their chest. “…I don’t really want to drink from anyone else.”

“Oof,” Grantaire grins and he sucks his breath in through his teeth. “That’s…alright, good to know.”

“Stop that,” Jehan groans.

“Stop what?” He grins even wider.

They huff at him and reseal the empty blood bag. Damn feelings. It would be easier if they could just sink into them freely, without ever the need to analyse and make sense of them.

“I did explain to him that drinking from you is different, though,” they say, turning to Grantaire with the glass in their hand.

“Oh?” Grantaire smirks. “And what did he say to that.”

“That that was fine.” Jehan takes a small sip and glances at him over the rim of the glass. “Apparently, you don’t count.”

Grantaire makes an elaborate show of gasping out the most indignant noise he has ever produced. “How _dare_ he.” With a ruffled flurry of movement he digs his phone out of his pocket. “He’d better have an apology ready.”

Jehan blinks in surprise. “He gave you his number?” they ask, their genuine shock glowing with a core of pure joy.

“Yeah, molded, right?” Graintaire shakes his head mournfully, even as he’s typing. “And he’s about to regret it.”

He’s still not done typing, which doesn’t bode well. So while they walk into the living room with their drink, Jehan takes out their own phone. To send Montparnasse some hearts and warn him that he’s about to receive what Courfeyrac likes to call “one of R’s addendums to War and Peace”.

The text he sends back to them is mostly emoji’s.

The texts he sends back to Grantaire are in a very different style and delight Grantaire so much that he reads every single one of them out in full.

\---

The credits are still rolling on the screen, but they have been for a while now and at this point Montparnasse is mostly still on the couch because he likes the music and he’s too lazy to move. Fauntleroy is sprawled out next to him in a similar manner, but their attention has shifted from the screen to the kitchen door. Their head tips to the side a little and Montparnasse follows their example. From this angle he can just see Claquesous and Gueulemer standing in the kitchen, talking softly with their heads close together. He can’t be sure, but to Montparnasse is looks like Gueul has his hand on Sous’ arm.

Faunt turns their head away in favour of looking at him instead. “Were they like that before- before I came, as well?” they mutter.

“Dunno. Don't know Sous much longer than you do.” He represses a yawn while Faunt frowns a little.

“I've asked Sous but he won't really talk about it.”

Montparnasse grunts softly and shakes his head. Who the hell knows what's up with Sous and Gueul.

“How long did it take you?” they ask. “To make up your mind. With Jehan.”

“That’s different,” he says firmly. “We weren’t friends. And we started _out_ hooking up.” If Faunt thinks he’s going to let them quiz him on his relationship they’ve got another thing coming. He has decided very firmly that he will deal with that godawful mess of feelings when he’s no longer metaphorically starving. “Then again,” he grunts. “For all we know they're going at it after hours.”

“No,” Fauntleroy hums, keeping their voice down. “They're not.”

They sound very sure of themself. “How would you know?”

Fauntleroy gives him a rather judgemental look. “People smell way different, after.”

He wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah,” they say decidedly. “So trust me, I'd know.”

Montparnasse glances towards the kitchen again. “…maybe that's just not what this is about.” Or maybe they don’t know what they want. Might be a first for Claquesous, but at least it would explain the uncharacteristic indecisiveness.

“Mm,” Faunt hums and there is a long silence before they finally say: “I mean, it doesn't matter what it's about, but why don't they _talk_ about it? They should just be together whatever way they wanna be.”

“Not that easy, though, is it,” he grunts.

“Is too.”

“Look, I’m not gonna knock that ‘adopted on sight’ thing you and Sous have going on, but for most people it’s different.”

It doesn't come out quite the way he had meant, but he doesn't know what else to call. Montparnassse knows, or suspects rather, that Faunt isn't really in the whole romance thing. At least they definitely don’t see Sous that way, but he is undeniable the most important person in their life. They're almost like siblings, but it’s still a little different.

Next to him Fauntleroy has gone very quiet. Just when Montparnasse wonders if he said something he's going to have to talk himself out of they say, rather abruptly: “Sorry if I made it harder for you and Jehan.”

Montparnasse gives them a short, sideways glance and then carefully fixes his eyes on the rolling credits again. “Next time you wanna look out for me, don’t be such a brat about it,” he snorts.

They don’t answer that, Faunt just tips their weight sideways ever so slightly, so their shoulder rests against his. Montparnasse stays put, in companionable silence.

When he comes back from the kitchen, Claquesous nearly smiles, and Montparnasse decidedly pretends not to notice.

\---

“Oh _bogus_.” Jehan lets out a groan of frustration. Of course Enjolras would arrive just when Parnasse has stepped outside for a smoke. From what they understood for Gueul he’s been trying to quit, but failing a bit lately. Jehan chooses to pretend they have no idea why.

“What’s up?” Grantaire asks, poking his head round the kitchen door.

“Nothing,” Jehan grumbles. “Just, Enj has arrived.”

Grantaire joins them at the window and makes a fond, but otherwise nondescript noise. Outside Enjolras has joined Montparnasse on the steps and is talking to him in the impassioned way he uses with anyone whose best interest he has at heart but that won’t listen to him. Jehan _wishes_ they got along better. Despite their best efforts, Enjolras is still trying to get Montparnasse to realise what a unique position he is in, whenever they meet, but all it seems to do is make Parnasse uncomfortable.

“I wish they went better together,” they mutter regretfully.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire hums beside them. “They go _great_ together.”

They look up at him in confusion. Grantaire is leaning against one side of the window frame, watching with his head slanted how Enjolras and Montparnasse stand just within in the lit circle of the street light.

“What do you—”

Grantaire wraps an arm around their shoulders and pulls them in closer. “Stop looking at their expressions for a bit,” he instructs.

Jehan follows his gaze. Enj and Parnasse are almost the same height and of startlingly similar build, but one clad in red and the other in black, golden curls mirrored to dark, but framing equally pale faces. Grantaire’s face meanwhile is lit up with smirking delight.

Jehan glances up at him again. “You’re impossible.”

“I am an _artist_ ,” Grantaire retorts. “And right now my artistic opinion is that we both have _bitchin_ taste.”

Well _obviously_ they do. But that’s hardly the point right now. Before Jehan can think of a suitable protest, however, Enjolras abruptly bows out of his conversation with Montparnasse and comes inside. Jehan lets go of Grantaire so he can go greet his boyfriend and he leaves their side with a wink. They wait a while longer, watching how Montparnasse extinguishes his cigarette and slips back inside, closing the door that Enj left ajar behind him.

Jehan can hear his footsteps hesitate outside the living room for a moment, as if he’s listening whether Grantaire and Enjolras are with them, and they smile when he comes in. The smell of smoke hanging around him is not exactly pleasant, but it has a tinge of nostalgia to it.

“He means well,” they apologise for Enjolras. “I promise.”

One corner of Montparnasse’s mouth pulls a little, but he shrugs and smiles through it. “Don’t worry about it, I managed.”

Jehan takes in the repressed amusement in his eyes with a flash of suspicions. “Yeah, what _did_ you say to him?”

Montparnasse flops down on the couch, holding out a hand to coax them down beside him. “Told him I vote blanco.”

“ _Parnasse_.” Jehan lets themself be pulled into his lap, but gives him a scolding poke to his chest. “You’re a liar and a cheat.”

“Conflict avoidance, Vogeltje,” Montparnasse purrs, winding his arms around them. “I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“No,” they scold, trying not to laugh thinking of what kind of conversation Grantaire is probably having with Enjolras at this moment. “No, I think you’re horrible.”

“Now who’s the liar,” Parnasse grins.

\---

Babet doesn’t question him when he randomly moves his shifts around. As long as he squares it with Marion she doesn’t care. Montparnasse is pretty sure she knows though, she’s keeping a closer eye on him than usual. But the truth is, there’s nothing to see. Nothing bad anyway. In all honestly, he’s worryingly happy.

The more time he spends with Jehan in normal situations, mundane and boring ones, the more he feels like they somehow make all that stuff better. The more he knows about Jehan, about what it means to be with Jehan – the way they furrow their brow when they’re tired, the way their eyes go wide when they’re absorbed in a book, the subtle differences between how they cuddle up to Grantaire versus how they snuggle against him, the way they kick their shoes off before dancing – the harder it becomes not to want to be a part of that permanently. He has never felt quite the same about anyone and it’s _infuriation_ that now he feels it for someone who won’t allow themselves to believe him if he were to tell them. Not yet. Not for another two months and two weeks.

\---

Jehan is resting with their head on Montparnasse’s chest, one hand absently tracing the lines of his chest piece as far as its visible and their cheek pressed to his sternum. They’re listening to his heartbeat, he can tell.

Montparnasse reaches out to gently touch their head, combing his fingers through the smooth locks of red hair. “Is that still such a novelty?” he asks. Surely it can’t be anymore, by now.

Jehan makes a faintly surprised noise, the stroking of their fingers hesitating for a moment. “No…but…it’s precious.” They sigh slightly, turning their head just enough to press a kiss just above the edge of his binder.

Montparnasse smirks absentmindedly. He’s not quite sure what that means. If they find his mortality endearing that’s…well, he’s not sure how he feels about that.

“It’s part of _you_ ,” Jehan says softly. “And it’s a reminder.”

“Of your past?”

They lift up their head to look at him. Their eyes are achingly tender. “Not exactly, just…” They smile, averting their eyes for a moment, looking at once perfectly happy and very nearly frightened. “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this before, but, I know this-” Their hand spreads over his heart. “-and, well, the last human I loved… I still love him, but he’s not human anymore.”

Montparnasse knows they’re talking about Grantaire, but he isn’t able to truly process that right now. He stares at them wide-eyed for a second and then moves without saying a word.

The sudden kiss takes Jehan by surprise, but Montparnasse swallows their muffled sounds of confusion down and kisses them until they catch up and kiss back. Because whether they meant to or not, Jehan just told him that they love him and he needs to answer them without words right now.

-

Montparnasse is dizzying when he gets like this. Jehan has never considered themself one of the vampires that slowly lose touch with their human feelings over the decades, but with his warm fingers tangled in their hair and the sound of his quickened breathing rushing in their ears the sheer life in him is overwhelming.

There’s something adoring in the way Montparnasse touches them that makes them weak. By the time he breaks out of the kiss he has them pinned to the mattress under his own weight and Jehan writhes underneath him as soon as he goes for their neck. They keen when his blunt teeth scrape down their shoulder and Parnasse abruptly lifts up his head, grinning down on them with a warm sort of dark delight.

“That sound is better than _any_ racing heart.”

“Do it again then,” they groan, and after a single smug laugh, he does.

-

He can see them growing hungry. He can _see_ them getting hungrier and hungrier with every touch and it’s gorgeous. Whenever they throw their head back, fangs bared involuntarily, he can see the want in their eyes. They don’t do anything about it though, they won’t allow themself too. So they squirm and purr and gasp, shuddering under his touches. It’s almost as if he can feel them physically struggling against their own pleasure.

Montparnasse enjoys feeling Jehan fight their own want like that. Because it’s still him, he’s the reason for the sounds they’re making, of why their back is arching like that. It doesn’t matter that as he pins Jehan’s hands above their head, he can feel they are only letting him keep them in place. Montparnasse knows they are stronger than him, that is not where the struggle is. They aren’t fighting _him_ , they’re fighting their own self-control.

And god he wants them to lose.

Jehan looks up at him, their eyes large and black and poured full of dazed pleasure mixed with frantic aching. Montparnasse presses kisses down their neck and chest, squeezing their hips, and Jehan rakes their fingers through his hair, sighing and completely forgetting to breathe by turns. Montparnasse’s entire body is singing with the tension he can feel echoed in theirs. He touches his teeth to the curve where Jehan’s neck joins their shoulder and a weak sound escapes their lips. He bites down and Jehan arches their back underneath him. Their fingers dig deeper into his scalp and Montparnasse wonders exactly how hard he could bite before it would hurt them…

With a grunt of pleasure he lifts the pressure off his teeth and Jehan makes an absolutely _frantic_ sound.

Montparnasse swallows, feeling their cry twist hotly in his stomach. “You alright?” he breathes.

“Yes,” they gulp. “Yes, I just—” They twist their fingers into the sheets of Montparnasse’s bed as if to prevent themself from even touching him again. “—I want _more_.”

It’s not a demand, it’s a confession and the suffering pleasure in their voice is thick enough that Montparnasse can feel it sticking to his skin. He reaches out to brush his thumb across Jehan’s bottom lip and they close their eyes.

Seven more weeks. He _promised_. But how the hell can he keep a promise if they’re all but _begging_ him to break it.

For just a moment too long, Montparnasse lets his hand linger near their mouth.

-

They don’t mean to, they really don’t, but they can _hear_ his pulse. They can smell his blood flowing and he’s so warm and right on top of them—

Montparnasse doesn’t stop them when they grab his hand and press his wrist to their mouth, but he gasps. It’s not even a frightened sound, but the surprise is enough. Jehan lets go, with a whine that pulls up from the very pit off their stomach, and turns their head away before they can bite down.

Parnasse’s weight shifts as he sits up, but he doesn’t get off them, and whey they peek up at him his face is flooded with something that is very near genuine agony.

“I’m sorry,” Jehan sighs. “I shouldn’t—”

“Is there _really_ no other way?” Montparnasse interrupts and there is an edge to his voice as if something just snapped in him. He finally gets off them, sitting down heavily beside them on the bed, and claws a hand through his hair. “It’s been nearly five fucking months, Jehan, and I’m going _insane_.”

Jehan sits up, looking at him unhappily. “I know. I’m sorry…”

“No!” He grabs at their hand and squeezes. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want— Is there _really_ no way to speed this up. Not a single way to—” He lets out a groaning laugh. “I can deal with the lack of sex, but if I have to hear you make that sound again I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

The expression on his face is such a mess of apologetic suffering and confused agony that Jehan lets through a shaky smile. They sway to the side, nudging against him affectionately and he grunts softly, putting his head against their shoulder. Jehan sighs and rests their head against his for a moment.

It’s odd, they can hear his heart beating now, and his neck is right there, but the moment has passed and it doesn’t affect them in the same way anymore.

“I can wait,” Montparnasse says wearily after a moment’s silence. “I just really bloody hate it.”

“So do I.” Jehan swallows. They want to say more. They want to say how much it means to them that he is even willing to wait. And that even now what he wants isn’t to be drinking their blood, it’s for _them_ to no longer have to hold back. He’s so…so… “…there is one other way.”

Montparnasse’s head snaps up. “What—”

“It’s not a good one,” they say hastily, already sorry they said anything. They weren’t thinking.

“What,” Montparnasse repeats. His green eyes are fixed on them intently. “ _What_ other way?”

Jehan shifts uncomfortably. “Drinking from someone else.” They give him an apologetic look. “If you drank from someone with blood stronger than mine, it would drown out my influence.” They grimace. “But I know that’s not exactly—”

“I’ll do it.”

The words stick in Jehan’s throat. “You _what_?”

-

Montparnasse meets their shocked eyes with a calm, determined look. “I’ll do it. I’ll drink from someone else.”

“But—” Jehan looks genuinely bewildered. “That would put you under _their_ influence.”

He snorts. Jehan’s friends are far too nice to make that an intimidating prospect. “Beats seven more weeks of this,” he says. “Really. I don’t care.” It’s not going to make any difference. He knows how he feels. Nothing will change that. “Who would I have to drink from?”

Jehan is still looking at him with a face full of shock. They move their lips silently for a moment. “I’m sorry, you— Parnasse you don’t have to do this!”

Montparnasse blows out a breath. “I don’t _have_ to do _any_ of this!” He catches their hand again and tugs on it, wishing he knew a way to put this in words that could convey all his feelings to them in a way they would accept them. He looks at them.

“You really mean it.” Jehan pushes their hair out of their face. “You’d really do that for…for…”

“For us, yes.” He nearly winces at the way that sounds, but it’s _true_.

Jehan makes a soft, nearly helpless, emotional sound and squeezes his hand.

“So, whose blood is strong enough to drown yours out?” Montparnasse tries again. If this really is an option. If they can just ask one of Jehan’s friends, have him drink a few sips and finally prove to Jehan their anxiety about his feelings is unfounded. It would solve at least eighty percent of his problems in one go.

Jehan glances up at him, softly biting their lip. “Well, our only other strongblood is Enjolras.”

Oh _come_ on. Montparnasse looks at them in dismay. “You’re kidding.” He has to drink from _Enjolras_? He had honestly hoped it could be Grantaire. That really wouldn’t have been any sort of sacrifice. “What about Chetta?” he asks, his nose still wrinkled. “She’s way older than you.”

“Not as strong as me though,” they say with a shy smile.

Montparnasse groans. “But I last drank from you _ages_ ago, doesn’t that make a difference?” He doesn’t know what repulses him more, the idea of having to share with Enjolras what he has only ever done with Jehan, or being indebted to him for a damn favour.

“It does,” Jehan says cautiously. “But don’t you think this is a rather safe than sorry kind of—”

“Okay. _Fine_.” He gives them a dark look. “But I’m not asking him.”

A smile trembles on their lips. “No need, I’ll ask him. We can just talk about it some time. This isn’t something you just do.”

Montparnasse disagrees. It _is_ something he will just do. He will do it and get it over with and then he’ll get to see Jehan again the way they were that night they read him poetry. Radiating sated bliss and resting against him like that’s where they belong…

He shakes himself back into focus and leans into Jehan again. It’s a little hard to gauge how comfortable they actually are with this idea.

“So, when…”

“Right now, if you’ll hand me my phone,” Jehan blurts out.

Montparnasse grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * grins *
> 
> Dutch 101:
> 
> In the Netherlands “voting blanco” is what we call leaving the voting ballot completely blank, essentially saying you either don’t support any of the candidates, don’t support the entire system, or have no strong opinion but do want to participate. These “empty votes” do not count towards who wins, but they are counted towards voter attendance. It’s a widely held misconception, however, that a blanco vote automatically goes to the majority/biggest political party. That was even what I was taught in primary school. In a referendum voting blanco has real purpose, since there’s usually an attendance threshold for it to be considered binding. But when it comes to government elections you are basically abstaining from democracy and ‘letting the biggest party win’, hence the misconception (and Enjolras’ distress).


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems the right time to tell you that, thanks to Amanda, this story is sponsored - or rather fuelled - by Troye Sivan's "Youth", "Talk Me Down", "Too Good" and, most of all, "Bite". With an respectful nod to PatD's "Far Too Young to Die".

“I hate it.”

“ _Enj_ ,” Jehan pleads, trying to maintain eye contact with Enjolras as he starts pacing through the room.

“You asked me what I thought of the idea, and I hate it,” Enjolras says firmly. He frowns. “Doesn’t mean I won’t _do_ it… But it skeeves me out.”

Grantaire makes a soft noise from his position on the couch. “Nobody expects you to be amped about it, but Jehan is kinda doing this for the exact reasons it does skeeve you out.”

Jehan throws him a thankful glance, but still feels the urge to add a quick: “But I don’t want you to do it if it bothers you that much.”

Enjolras rubs at his temples, his frown etched deep into his forehead. “No, I get that, I know this is a consent thing. But—” He lets out a noise of frustration. “Enslaving someone to my mind to make sure he’s not bound to yours is hardly a good solution!”

Jehan winces. “Please don’t call it that.” Enjolras’ hang-ups about wards have never bothered them as much as now. If that was truly what it meant they wouldn’t even consider doing that to Montparnasse, ageing problems be damned.

Enjolras deflates a little, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry.”

He sits down next to Grantaire, who immediately throws an arm around his shoulders. “Knew you wouldn’t be comfortable with it, babe, but you’re pretty much the only one that’s sure to drown out any blood with just a sip.”

Jehan stays quiet while Enjolras sighs and allows Grantaire to cuddle him a bit. They know they’re asking a lot. The community Enjolras was raised in was not good to their wards and as far as they know he has only fed his blood to a mortal once since he moved to Amsterdam, to heal another vampire’s ally when they were badly hurt and their patron couldn’t be found.

“I’m just—” Enjolras grimaces. “It’s just another six weeks, right? Surely a couple more weeks won’t matter now.”

They must do something very comical with their face, because Grantaire has to mask his laughter with a very unconvincing cough. Jehan sulks at him and averts their eyes.

“I mean,” Grantaire mutters, nudging against Enjolras. He lowers his voice but Jehan can still hear him quite clearly. “D’you remember how we were, in the beginning?” His voice drops a little lower still. “Six weeks would probably have killed me.”

Jehan glances up to see blushless embarrassment wash over Enjolras’ face and they give him a pleading look. “I just want to be with him without having to think it’s not…” Not real. They don’t want to say that, but that’s what the anxious part of their brain is afraid of. No matter how hard all their other feelings contradict it.

Grantaire hums at them, low and affectionate and under the uncomfortable tension, Enjolras’ expression has grown soft and understanding.

He makes another conflicted noise. “Let me talk to Courfeyrac about it.”

Jehan can feel their face glowing with gratitude.

\---

Montparnasse glares at the united front that is Courfeyrac and Combeferre. “I still don’t see why this has to be a damn _group activity_.”

Courfeyrac gives him a slightly disapproving look. “Look,” he says. “This is a big thing and we’re here for support.”

“Plus, it’s rather fascinating,” Combeferre hums.

“Very nice to be considered an experiment,” Montparnasse says dryly.

Grantaire crosses the room from where he was fiddling with the record player and lets himself fall onto the couch next to him with such violence that Montparnasse is forced to shift positions. “Lighten up,” he grins. “You’re getting what you want, right?”

Mercifully Montparnasse doesn’t have to answer that, because at that moment Enjolras and Jehan return from the kitchen. As soon as Enjolras sets one foot inside something odd happens to Grantaire. He sits up and makes a strange sound at the back of his throat.

“Maybe move to another seat, R,” Courfeyrac says fondly.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t cover it,” Enjolras says and he puts his hand over the mug he’s holding.

Montparnasse pulls a face. A _mug_. Really?

Grantaire makes another odd sound and moves to the other end of the room, suddenly looking uncharacteristically disgruntled. Enjolras’ blood must have quite the effect on him.

Jehan silently takes the mug from Enjolras with a soft, grateful look, and gently sits down next to him on the couch. Now Montparnasse can smell the blood as well, but there is nothing appealing about it whatsoever. It’s actually kind of disgusting, now he’s thinking about it.

“This should be more than enough to be one hundred percent sure,” Jehan says and no matter how level their voice is, they still sound nervous.

“Right,” Montparnasse sighs. Let’s get this over with. “So I just drink it and that’s it?”

Jehan nods and holds the mug out to him.

Montparnasse takes it.

“Do I _have_ to be here?” Enjolras suddenly protests. He has removed himself to the far corner, standing next to – or rather against – Grantaire with a deeply uncomfortable expression on his face.

“I can’t remember a single recorded instance of a human drinking from a vampire that wasn’t present,” Combeferre says. “We have no way of knowing how Montparnasse will react to your blood. If he needs calming down, you’re the best person to do it.”

It takes quite a bit of self-control to keep his face straight, but he manages. Montparnasse clenches his teeth. This is _going_ to be worth it, but Jesus Christ does he wish there was another way.

“Besides, he might panic and try to get to you if you’re out of sight,” Courfeyrac says.

“Yeah, in your fucking dreams,” Montparnasse bites, nerves and discomfort twisting into a cold knot in his stomach. “Can we get this over with already?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Enjolras scowls. “Go on then.”

Montparnasse scowls back and lifts the mug to his lips. He doesn’t like being observed like this, stared at from every direction when he can’t carefully control the way he’s being perceived. The mug is cold in his hands and the blood smells so strongly of stale iron that he feels queasy. He glances at Jehan just before he drinks, at their wide, worried eyes and the wisps of stray hair falling in front of their face.

Nothing he can do will change his mind about them. Even if he can’t put it into words, even if it bewilders and confuses him. Whatever he feels for Jehan is real. And doing this will prove that to them.

So he drinks.

At the very first sip he knows he was mistaken. Enjolras’ blood isn’t disgusting. It’s delicious. And it isn’t cold. It _burns_. It burns as he swallows it, heating him up inside, making his heart race and his face flush. It’s a heavy, heady taste, but not sweet. Sweet like—

Sweet like Jehan.

With a ragged gasp Montparnasse tips his head back and the empty mug slips out of his hand. Something that must be his own breathing is shaking inside his chest and the room around him spins and tilts.

“Parnasse? Parnasse are you alright?”

Jehan’s voice comes from too far away for him to even be sure he heard it. He swallows hard and tries to sit upright. Something is burning on his skin and he doesn’t want it.

Another, urgent voice tries to push through the haze. “You try, Enj.”

“Montparnasse.”

Light floods into his eyes and Montparnasse’s head snaps up with what feels like pure instinct. There, standing in the middle of the room, is Enjolras. With his hair a golden halo and his eyes as tense as they are blue.

Enjolras is beautiful…

It’s the stab of indignant jealousy that reaches comes through the stupor first, immediately followed by an absolute flood of feelings far more his own than that horrendous admiration he just felt.

“Well he’s awake,” Enjolras says stiffly and no sooner have the words left his mouth or Montparnasse feels a warm feeling of interest ripple through him.

That is _disgusting_.

“ _Gross_ ,” he grunts and blindly he reaches out for Jehan, hiding his face against their chest with an utter indifference to the full quartet of people present to see him do it.

“Well!” Courfeyrac exclaims cheerfully somewhere to his left.

“Parnasse?” Jehan whispers, their voice sounding wobbly with relief. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he groans. Or at least he will be when he has washed this taste out of his mouth.

Jehan’s arms wind around him, hugging him securely against their chest.

“I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for questions?” Combeferre says regretfully.

Montparnasse lifts up his head to glare at him, careful not to look at Enjolras.

“Yeah, let’s not do that just now,” Courfeyrac says brightly. “We’ll give you two a moment alone. Come along.”

He begins ushering the others towards the door and Montparnasse can’t help looking at Grantaire as he wraps an arm around Enjolras’ waist. There’s a weird, confusing stab of envy in his chest and Montparnasse huffs out a low sound of disagreement.

“I’m sorry you had to do this,” Jehan mutters, their voice nearly muffled in his hair.

He makes a vague noise, breathing deeply to take in their scent. Somehow that helps.

“How do you feel?”

“ _Not_ the same as with you,” he answers decidedly. It’s hardly even comparable. “I feel stuff, but I feel that it isn’t _me_.”

“And…you didn’t feel that before?”

“With you? Never.” Montparnasse is overcome by the rather dissociative sensation that his body is at once fully energised and oddly sluggish. It’s not pleasant. He finally looks up into Jehan’s face, into their worried, nearly anxious eyes. “I told you… It wasn’t your blood.”

A smile trembles onto Jehan's face and they very gently reach out to stroke his hair out of his face. Instead of saying something they swallow and nod.

Montparnasse makes an effort to deepen his breathing. There’s triumph beginning to bleed through the twist of conflicted of feelings. Without Enjolras immediate presence the effects of his blood are no longer that distracting and he can _tell_ which of the feelings come from the blood. They stand out. He can fight them. He does feel drunk though. Bad drunk. Montparnasse lets out an amused snort.

“What?” Jehan asks, their smile growing steadier already.

“I feel fucking wasted,” he groans and in an impulse he recites the words that bubbled up in his brain to make him laugh:

“ _Be drunken continually.  
Drunken with what?  
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will.  
But be drunken.”_

He grimaces affectionately at them. “I really prefer being drunk on you.”

Jehan looks at him with their wide with some unreadable, sudden emotion. “…you read Baudelaire for me?”

Montparnasse looks back at them with a strange kind of ache in his chest. They’re surprised. Why are they surprised? Yes, he reads the books they say they loved. He listens when they mutter to themself as they write. He talks about them to his friends. He

He feels… He feels… Oh what he feels is every day implied. But that isn’t good enough right now. This isn’t how he imagined it. But it needs to be now, with Enjolras blood clinging to his mind.

“I love you.”

Jehan’s startled eyes are beautiful. The burst of joy on their face just before they kiss him even more so.

Montparnasse feels a surge of strength and energy reach all the way through his body as soon as he pushes back against them. One thing he’s gotta hand to Enjolras, his blood sure is strong.

Jehan’s fingers tangle into his hair and they kiss him wildly and deeply, before frantically breaking away with their eyes wide and dark. “Fuck- _Fuck_ you taste like blood,” they pant, but before Montparnasse can even begin to respond they kiss him again.

He growls his approval against their lips and pulls them into his lap, putting his newfound strength to good use.

This is not how he had imagined this moment. In the oddly posh living room of the three musketeers, with awkward conversations still ringing in his ears. But for the first time since – maybe the first time ever – Jehan feels like they’re not holding back. Like their kiss, their embrace, the soft noises escaping from the back of their throat, are finally allowed to hold the full, unbridled force of their feelings.

It’s an _electric_ feeling and there’s a hunger hidden in it that Montparnasse suddenly realises he gets to _encourage_ now. No more forced self-control. No more _infuriating_ self-denial. With an abrupt, hungry noise, he drags Jehan flush against him and their legs jerk reflexively, halfway to wrapping around his waist.

There is a gentle knock on the living room door. “Um, guys?”

_Godverdomme._

Fucking Marius.

Jehan breaks away with him from a start and no matter how embarrassed they look, for a split second he saw something flash in their eyes that looking positively _feral_.

“I just wanted to check- Courf asked me to see if you guys were alright?”

Montparnasse has to swallow to keep down the growl that coils in his throat. Goddamn Courfeyrac and his fucking bright ideas.

“We’re fine, Marius!” Jehan calls back, their voice unnaturally high. “We’re fine!” They look down at Montparnasse frantically for a moment and he can’t resist digging his fingers into their thighs a little.

They bare their fangs at him for a single, glorious second and then they hastily scramble off him and to their feet.

“You sure?” Marius asks nervously and the door opens at a crack. “Montparnasse?”

“I’m _wonderful_ , Pontmercy. Never better,” Montparnasse grits.

To his horror Marius opens the door even further, stepping halfway inside while Jehan darts around to grab their bag and cardigan. He has that stubborn expression on his face that he gets when he’s about to make a nuisance of himself.

“This is a big deal,” Marius says frowningly. “What you just did.”

Montparnasse blinks. Is Marius trying to take _care_ of him? He opens and closes his mouth without making a sound.

“You’re right, Marius,” Jehan says and their voice _almost_ sounds normal. “You’re absolutely right. So I think…I think it’s best if I take Parnasse home now.”

The edge to their voice is virtually undetectable, but Montparnasse hears it. He hears it and it goes straight to his head. All he can do is swallow hard and nod silently. Yes. They need to go home. He needs to be _alone with them_.

Marius isn’t budging though. He’s practically blocking the door.

Montparnasse looks at him in bewilderment, still drunk on blood and with the want for Jehan still twisting in his chest. Marius is _actually_ trying to look out for him. In a sudden flash he recognises the expression on the annoyingly handsome face. It’s the same way he looked when he was concerned for Éponine. With a grimace he makes an effort to muster up enough sincerity to make Marius believe him.

“It went well,” he says. “I feel…good. But I’d rather—” Bloody hell does he not want to be talking to Marius right now. “—rather not be near Enjolras.”

Just saying his name does something to him. It doesn’t feel toxic, or out of control, but he feels it. A tug in his mind and his stomach alike. He doesn’t like it.

But at least Marius can see he means it. The frown around his eyes lessens a little, into a look of understanding. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters. “I get that. It feels…very strong.”

He glances once more questioningly at Jehan, who smiles at him and suddenly rushes forward, grabbing Montparnasse by the hand as they dart past him.

“You’re a doll for caring, Marius,” they murmur, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and Montparnasse is surprised at himself that he feels amusement rather than that one of his familiar pangs of jealousy. Jehan’s grip on his hand tightens ever so slightly. “Please tell the others thanks, especially Enj, but I’m sure they’ll understand we’ve got to peel out.”

They don’t quite wait for an answer and Marius doesn’t stop them when they push past him. Montparnasse happily allows himself to be dragged into the hallway, trying not to listen too closely to the voices coming from the direction of the kitchen. Enjolras is in there somewhere, probably with Grantaire wrapped around him…

The cold night air hits his face and he just has enough time to grab his coat before Jehan pulls him outside and straight across the street. He’s pretty sure they’re already running down the pavement when he hears the heavy front door slam.

Involuntarily he glances back at the house and just before Jehan guides him hurriedly round a corner he is convinced he sees a face behind one of the windows. Grinning Grantaire’s wide, shit-eating grin.

He turns away, eyes front and fixed on Jehan again, and a wild thrill of adoration surges through him from some unseen source. The two of them are almost running down the street by now and his heart is pounding. It’s pounding for the tight grip they have on his hand, for the glittering look in their eyes, for the frantic way their feet dance from tile to tile.

“Vogeltje—”

They turn around, glittering eyes wide. They would be panting if they had the breath to do it. “Yes?”

Montparnasse reaches out and drags them close, his own back hitting a brick wall as he steps out of reach of the dutiful streetlights. A frantic sound spills from their lips and they kiss him back as soon as he offers, pressing against him with something so near starvation that it makes their cold skin seem hot.

They _whine_ when he puts distance between them again and Montparnasse nods in blind agreement. “Tram’s faster,” he pants.

“But people,” Jehan groans, already hurrying down the street again.

“But _faster_ ,” he insists.

-

Jehan isn’t sure how they managed the tram ride. They’re not even sure how they even ended up in Montparnasse’s bed. All they know is that Montparnasse is gasping underneath them, blood streaming from his neck and his fingers digging into their thighs where they are wrapped around his waist. His hair is a mess, his shirt is lying on the floor with a button ripped off it, and his lips are nearly bruised with kissing. But his face…his face is full of bliss.

They sink their fangs into his neck again and Parnasse keens. His back arches and Jehan grabs into his hair to keep him still. He’s wide awake. This is the third bite and he’s _wide awake_. He hasn’t drunk a single drop from them yet, but he heals so fast they barely have time to lick the wounds clean.

Enjolras. Enjolras’ blood is coursing through his body. Jehan can smell it on him, they can _taste_ it. It makes them growl. It makes them hiss. It makes them drink deeper, as if they can get at Montparnasse’s own taste if only they drink through it.

It also makes them drunk.

-

He has never seen Jehan like this. Montparnasse is tossed back and forth between intoxicated laughter and breathless groans of pleasure. His head is swimming and he’s sure he would have hurt a human partner with the way his nails are dragging down Jehan’s skin whenever their teeth pierces his. It’s almost as if their drinking doesn’t quench their thirst at all. Like every sip actively makes them want for more.

But then they keep stopping. Pull back their head with a groan whenever they’re drinking deepest, to kiss his cheeks and stroke his hair and rock against him as if they’re utterly lost to the rest of the world.

He has never been able to stay conscious during their feeding and maybe, just maybe, this makes having to drink from someone other than them worth it. Because the feeling of Jehan sating themself on him, of dragging his entire being towards them through the flow of his blood, is better than anything he has ever felt.

It brings back every previous lost moment. All those times he was wrapped in their embrace and slipped into darkness the moment the pleasure rushed over him. This time he’s awake. Awake for _all_ of it. All the way up to the moment that Jehan’s eyes meet his, wide and dark and drunk, and they slump forward into his arms.

Montparnasse laughs, feeling light in the head but not even slightly faint, and rocks them back until they are lying on the mattress. A vision of tousled red hair and bloody lips. He leans over them and reaches out, brushing his thumb past the corner of their mouth.

Jehan sighs, blinking with dazed eyes, and they lick their lips.

The love mixed in with the want he feels is so strong that for a moment Montparnasse does nothing but stare at them. Just a moment ago they were overwhelming, now they look soft and nearly lost.

“Drank your fill, did you, Vogeltje?” He dips his head down to ghost a kiss against their cheek.

“You…” Jehan whines softly and licks their lips again. “You taste— I love you.”

Montparnasse feels himself grin without any conscious decision. Oh he loves them right back. But he saw that little spark of disagreement and he feels the urge to laugh scratch at his ribs. “I taste like him, don’t I?”

A soft hiss escapes from Jehan’s throat and for a second their bare their blood-smeared teeth. “Yes.”

“Mmmm,” he hums amusedly. Jehan _does_ look pretty drunk. He’d be offended, but he’s pretty sure that there’s no one that would hate to be part of their sex life more than Enjolras, so it probably evens out.

He nuzzles leisurely against Jehan’s neck, smiling at the feeling of their arms wrapping around him to keep him close. Blood and flowers. That’s what they smell like. Blood and flowers and beauty. They hang around him with an endearing sort of neediness Montparnasse hasn’t felt in them before, but that he is more than willing to get used to.

And he will be able to get used to it. He gets that chance now.

He makes sure to purr his next sentence right by their ear. “Do you think your blood will drive his out?”

When he pulls back enough to look at them, Jehan’s eyes are less dazed, but no less dark. “I don’t know…”

Montparnasse grins. “Want to try?”

Jehan’s right hand slides down from where it was resting on the back of his neck. “You can’t drink enough to become an ally,” they murmur. “Not yet. You can’t have too much vampire blood in one go.”

Who cares. He’s in no hurry. Not anymore. Montparnasse nuzzles against their hand as it strokes past his cheek. “I’m sure we’ll find ways to catch up.”

Their breathy laugh shows of their fangs and for once Jehan keeps them bared. They bite into their wrist, their eyes closing half a second, before lifting up to look straight into his.

Montparnasse watches them, feeling the full weight of what they are about to offer him.

Jehan releases their arm, letting their bleeding wrist rest beside their head on the quickly staining pillow. They look up at him silently, their expression full of wordless love and trust.

He very slowly bows his head, lips already parting at the promise of a taste of what he’s missed so much. But he stops, just before he gets to kiss their wrist, and lifts his head up again.

“Hey, about the ally thing?”

“Yes?”

“How about we start with boyfriend.”

And with Jehan’s radiant smile lit up in his eyes, Montparnasse drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me some healthy conflict resolution <3
> 
> The poem by Baudelaire is from Les Fleurs du Mal, “Ever the same, be ignorant”.
> 
> “Godverdomme” is, of course, “goddammit”.


	13. Chapter 13

The sound of the front door opening rouses Jehan from their comfortable dozing against Grantaire’s chest. They drowsily open their eyes and make a soft, pleased noise at the back of their throat, that R answers with an amused hum. A moment later their expectation is rewarded as Montparnasse walks into the living room.

A weekly dose of vampire blood looks good on him, his increase in strength and health is clearly visible in his posture. Although, Jehan muses dreamily, they shouldn’t be allowed to take all the credit. He’s coming up on one year on T and cutting back on his smoking again can’t have hurt either.

“Evening,” Jehan smiles sitting up a little under the weight of Grantaire’s arm.

“Evening,” Montparnasse says fondly, before he throws a challenging look Grantaire’s way.

“I’m not moving just because you happen to have a key now,” Grantaire snorts. “But you’re _more_ than welcome to join us.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes and sits down on Jehan’s other side. He leans against them, resting his chin against their shoulder, and Grantaire shifts his arm so it nearly reaches around the both of them. His movement is casual and Jehan reads no reaction in Montparnasse whatsoever, other than the fact that his body relaxes against theirs more fully.

Jehan is too happy to speak, so they settle for as loud a noise of utter contentment that they can make without moving even a single inch away from the perfect position they now find themself in.

Grantaire lets out a warm chuckle.

On their other side Parnasse exhales loudly through his nose. “If you try to invite Enjolras, I’m leaving.” He sounds snippy, but there’s no bite to it. None at all.

Grantaire turns his head just enough to throw a theatrically thoughtful look his way and Jehan laughs out loud.

“Listen,” they grin, nuzzling against the top of his head. “You know I’m more than happy to repay you in cuddle piles with _your_ friends.”

He gives an amused grunt. “I value my life, thank you.”

Jehan smiles, closing their eyes a moment to revel in the still novel feeling of Grantaire’s cool, still body supporting them on one side and Montparnasse’s warmth, full of breath and heartbeat, pressed against them from the other side. It’s lovely. They’re so lucky.

“…I’d like it if you came to hang out next Tuesday after work, though,” Montparnasse mutters comfortably.

They lift up their eyes, smile widening. “I’d love to.”

\---

Claquesous and Fauntleroy’s apartment is an interesting mix of practical functionality and eclectic styling. Jehan kind of loves it and they’re really digging the way this evening is going. Éponine just arrived, which they have been told is an exception, and Jehan is absolutely delighted with it.

“Good to see you again,” they smile, after observing with great amusement how Montparnasse allows her to hug him.

“And you,” she grins.

The last time they met had been a rather tense first meeting, but as far as Jehan can tell Éponine has taken Marius’ turning in her stride in such a way that the primary feeling all these revelations have generated is a nearly aggressive curiosity. They wish they had more answers for her, they really do.

“Gotta say, I feel a bit stupid,” she hums, nodding towards the couch, where Faunt showing Gueulemer something on their phone. “I mean, I should have caught on.”

“Well,” Jehan laughs. “We learn how to hide the teeth. And Faunt’s not really a hugger, are they.”

Éponine smirks and shakes her head.

Across the room, as if deliberately proving a point, Fauntleroy abandons their attempt to teach Gueul whatever it is he is doing wrong, and sits down heavily on Claquesous lap.

“Uitzonderingen daargelaten,” Éponine snorts.

They make their way over to the other end of the room, further away from the door. Montparnasse warned that some other friends would be joining later, people who weren’t aware of some of the special circumstances the other guests were dealing with, so Jehan doesn’t allow themself to let their guard down all the way.

“You and Marius doing alright lately?” they ask.

Éponine hums. “Better. He’s found his rhythm again, with studying and stuff. Feels normal again, sort of. We just changed the coffee dates for walks.”

Jehan smiles. “I’m glad.”

She nods, a little thoughtfully. “He talks about you guys a lot. All of you.”

There’s a sudden outburst of noise at the door and three more people pile into the tiny living room. Jehan waves in response to their general, room-wide greetings. It’s a bit of a clamour though, with the music being turned on in the background, and they don’t really catch any names.

Montparnasse is back at their side almost right away, wrapping an arm around their waist and kicking against Éponine’s foot with his own. “How’s the internship?”

“Infuriating,” Éponine replies. “They matched me up with the only two emphatic beings in that place – Willemijn and Kalle are saints – and I want to yell at the policy makers so badly.”

“I thought you were studying social work?” Jehan asks curiously.

“Yeah, but I’m specialising in debt assistance,” she sighs. “And people need to get it through their damn heads that no one makes debts on _purpose_.”

Jehan has never heard Éponine talk about her work before and as she rattles off figures and statistics, alternating wildly between praising her supervisor’s insight and blaming her for keeping her head down in a rotten system, they are briefly, but very vividly reminded of Enjolras mid-rant.

Around them the hangout gets noisier. One of the new people is very loud and someone has turned on music. After a while Jehan sees Fauntleroy slip away towards a closed door. Just when they open it they glance back, and happen to meet Jehan’s eye. They look at them silently for a moment and then make a movement that is somewhere between a shrug and a nod and slip through the door, leaving it just a little ajar.

Jehan is pretty sure that as far as Fauntleroy is concerned that is a warm and enthusiastic invitation.

They excuse themself, leaving Parnasse and Éponine to feed off each other’s spiteful energy on the subject they have since moved to: their experiences in the service industry. Montparnasse lets them go with a single glance to check if they’re alright and they smile reassuringly, slipping away from the others and into the room Fauntleroy disappeared to.

It turns out to be their bedroom. Maybe they should have expected that, but Jehan is still a little taken aback. The room is tiny, with shimmery lilac walls and no windows, but a big poster board full of drawings and pictures taking up most of the opposite wall. Faunt has just sat down on a bed with a black gauze canopy, looking up at them with their head casually tipped back.

“Mardisoir has a scrape on her knee, did you notice?”

Ah, so they misheard that. It was Mardi, not Marie. “Yeah,” Jehan nods.

“I’ve got food stashed in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Fauntleroy adds generously.

They’re more companionable than Jehan has ever seen them and they appreciate it so much they nearly say yes. “I’m alright, thank you though.”

There isn’t really any other place to sit and Jehan hesitates before Fauntleroy suddenly moves over to one corner of the bed a bit, without saying a word. Jehan sits down on the other corner, not quite able to shake the feeling that they’ve just been booped on the nose by a particularly aloof cat.

“I know you don’t like animal blood,” Fauntleroy hums. “It’s fine, I get it.

“Thanks,” Jehan says quietly. “For being understanding, I mean.” It means a lot coming from Fauntleroy.

Faunt shrugs their shoulders. “I don’t like it either,” they grunt. “But I figure, I used to eat meat, so.”

Jehan gives them a soft smile. “We all try to make the best choice for ourselves and try not to do harm, that’s the best any of us can do.”

“Who said that?” they ask, half-frowning.

“My friend Enjolras.”

“The scout leader,” they snort.

“Next time I’m showing up in uniform, you watch me,” Jehan warns them and they actually grin. It’s making Jehan a little giddy, actually. They’ve had to fight the urge to physically drag Fauntleroy along to the ABC so many times. They need peers so badly. But that is not their decision.

They look through the carefully styled room and the poster board catches their eye. There are pictures on it. Jehan squints. There’s… “Is that you?”

Fauntleroy was clearly watching them already, because they nod immediately.

Jehan gets to their feet and walks to the board, forgetting even to ask permission. Right there. Next to a picture of Sous flipping off the camera while Gueulemer leans against him on the couch, seemingly asleep; a picture of Montparnasse, Gueulemer, Claquesous _and_ Fauntleroy in Gueulemer's living room. Jehan splutters. “But _how_ …?”

“Photoshop.” Fauntleroy is suddenly right beside them and Jehan nearly starts. “It’s a real photo,” they say. “I just half-drew, half-shopped over the blurry mess that was supposed to be me.”

“That’s fantastic.” Now they mention it they can see something off about the colours, the lighting maybe, but it looks incredibly real. “That’s _gorgeous_.” They look at Fauntleroy, smiling wide. “You fixed it.”

For half a second a smile twitches on Faunt’s lips and then they look away, their eyes scanning the rest of the board. “Look.”

They point at a rather bad picture of Claquesous and Montparnasse in front of the coffeeshop. Parnasse’s hair is _way_ longer than he has it now and it kind of looks like he got rained on that day. Jehan bites their lip, a smile trembling on it.

“I stole that,” Fauntleroy says proudly.

“Does he know you have it?”

“Nope.”

They laugh.

Fauntleroy makes a pleased noise and then suddenly, eyes still fixed on the pictures, they say: “Parnasse seems happy.”

Jehan glances at them cautiously. “I’m glad you think so.”

Faunt plucks at a torn corner of a printed out quote. “He’s not…like Sous was when…”

Jehan shifts their weight, looking down at their feet. “I would never do that to Parnasse.”

When they look up again, Fauntleroy’s brown eyes are fixed on them intently. “But, could you? I mean, is he still… Are there still side effects. If you do it like you do it? Voluntarily and stuff.”

That…doesn’t sound like they’re still talking about Parnassse. “Are you worried about someone else?” they ask, almost fearful.

“No, just.” Faunt looks at the floor. “Sous’ birthday is in a couple weeks. He’s gonna be twenty-six…”

A dozen little moments flash before Jehan’s eyes. All of them filled with Claquesous looking out for Fauntleroy or Faunt making him the singular recipient of their affection. “Oh… I see.”

Fauntleroy has gone completely quiet, still stubbornly staring down.

Jehan feels awkward, standing here by the wall, too unsure to even put a hand on their shoulder, but absolutely refusing not to make this an actual conversation. “I’m guessing you guys don’t really talk about this?”

They shake their head.

“…you should. Maybe he’s worried about it too.” He has to be. Claquesous is hard to get to know, Jehan is not at all convinced they’ve made much progress. But Montparnasse knows him and from what he has told them about Claquesous there is no way he _wouldn’t_ be thinking about this.

Nothing follows but silence.

“Twenty-six is not old, Faunt.”

“I _know_ that,” they snap.

Jehan shuts their mouth. They know that was hypocritical to say. They never lived past twenty-one, Fauntleroy never made it past _nineteen_. Montparnasse is twenty-two…

When Faunt looks up again their expression is uncertain and almost anxious. “Would my blood— Could it stop him from aging?”

“I don’t quite know how it works for weakbloods,” Jehan admits. “But I think it should slow it down at least, perhaps not as much as stronger blood.”

“And—” There is urgency in their voice now. “It wouldn’t— I don’t want him to be under my control.”

“Faunt that is a choice you make, surely you would never—”

“I don’t want it to be _possible_.”

Jehan draws back. Fauntleroy’s entire body has tensed up.

“I don’t ever _ever_ want him to feel like…” They swallow, looking slightly ill. “I can’t make him do that for me,” they say in a small voice.

“Of course not,” Jehan says firmly. Their square their shoulders. “That’s why it isn’t your choice, but his.”

They would like to tell Faunt about Montparnasse drinking from Enjolras. About how scared they themself had been that Montparnasse wasn’t master of his own feelings. But that’s not theirs to share.

“I have friends who have been allies for years,” they say gently. “Because they fell in love with a vampire and decided to stay with her. There are loads of side effects. Their ageing has more than halved. They say they feel things differently, that some of their senses are sharper, and they heal faster of course. They’re a bit more sensitive to the sun.” They make an effort to meet Faunt’s eyes. “Their partner never controls them. In anything. Just like I don’t with Parnasse.”

Fauntleroy looks at them, their expression sober. “But you could, if you wanted to.”

Jehan sighs. “Perhaps,” they say uncomfortably. “But that’s the thing. I wouldn’t want to. I can’t imagine—” They refuse to believe. “—that there would ever be a situation in which I would _want_ to do that to Parnasse. And if you don’t _really_ want it— have you ever used Presence on someone?”

“I…” They hesitate. “Maybe. I’ve tried, but, I don’t know if I can.”

They nod. “Well, it doesn’t work if you don’t really _want_ it to.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” they mutter, but Jehan has seen the spark of hope in their eyes.

“You want proof?” they say challengingly. “So do I. We haven’t got any. But we _do_ have what my friend Ferre calls anecdotal evidence.”

Fauntleroy exhales noisily through their nose. “You’ve got a bunch of stories.”

“Yup.” Jehan tips their head to the side. “Want to hear some?”

-

At some point Éponine gets so distracted by a series of texts from Azelma that Montparnasse takes a moment to look around and realises he doesn’t see Jehan anywhere. He turns around, frowning slightly. Perhaps they stepped outside? It is getting pretty loud in here.

“Sorry,” Éponine grimaces. “I’m gonna give Zel a quick call and some instructions on emergency paint removal.”

“Right,” he snorts.

While she hurries off Montparnasse takes a more careful look around, but Jehan is nowhere to be seen. Claquesous is sitting in a relatively quiet corner on the couch though, his feet propped up on the drinks-laden coffee table. Montparnasse makes his way over.

“Have you seen Jehan?” he asks, waiting for Sous to look up at him.

“With Faunt,” he says, nodding towards the closed bedroom door.

Montparnasse hums in surprise. He glances curiously down at Claquesous, but his friend actually seems to be okay with the situation. Montparnasse sits down next to him, snatching an unopened beer off the table in the process. It’s still cold enough.

For a moment they sit in what at least feels like comfortable silence, both drinking, both watching idly how Mardisoir and Gueul are banding together in the noble cause of annoying Brujon. Suddenly Sous speaks up:

“Working out well for you, hm? This thing.”

Montparnasse deliberately doesn’t try to make eye contact with Claquesous, who is looking around the room with careful indifference. “I’d say so.”

They sit in silence for a while, but Montparnasse is chewing on some words he’d like to get rid of.

“Told you Jehan wanted to make sure I didn’t want them cause of the blood, right?”

Claquesous hums in neutral agreement. He had been less neutral the first time they had really talked about it. It had been a turning point.

“Didn’t tell you _how_ we made sure.”

Sous’ dark eyes flit to his. “I thought you had to wait it out.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Got pretty sick of that.”

A few months ago he would have stiffened up with suspicion, Montparnasse is sure of that, but right now Claquesous merely frowns. “So what did they – did _you_ – do?” he demands.

Montparnasse braces himself. “Asked one of their friends to feed me. Drown Jehan out so to speak.” He looks straight into Sous’ visibly shocked face. “I fucking hated it.” He pulls a face. “I don’t like the guy much, he gets on my nerves, but it was suddenly like I _wanted_ to like him. Disgusting.”

Claquesous’ face is blank, but his eyes glitter nervously. “And—”

“And then he fucked off and Jehan took me home.”

Sous clears his throat. “Should we be talking about this here?”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow, just as the roaring laughter at the other end of the room grows even louder.

Claquesous scowls slightly, still uncomfortable, but eventually he asks: “It feels different then. Even though it was both…voluntary.”

“Can’t really compare them even,” Montparnasse says deliberately. “Drinking from Jehan doesn’t put anything in my mind that wasn’t there before.”

That turn of phrase clearly strikes Claquesous. He doesn’t answer, but it’s obvious that he’s thinking about it.

“Their roommate is like them,” Montparnasse continues after a moment. “And he drinks from his partner and sometimes his friends. They’re like me. He says it’s different too.” Montparnasse sniffs. “But he’s a very touchy person at the best of times.”

Claquesous blinks. “What do you mean?”

“That he’s clingy,” Montparnasse answers. “But _especially_ after feeding from his friends. I’ve never seen him after he fed from his partner, but Jehan assure me it’s different in a way I do not _want_ to see.”

“The blood of his- of the gh—” Sous cuts himself off and shuts his mouth.

“Allies,” Montparnasse supplies quietly.

Claquesous wrinkles his nose. “ _Their_ blood affects him?”

He nods. “Something about the emotion you experience while feeding. Some psychological shit.”

Claquesous makes an odd sort of sound and looks down at the bottle in his hand. Montparnasse recognises the look on his face. He only ever looks like that when he’s thinking about Fauntleroy, and worrying. Claquesous sighs and leans back on the couch.

Montparnasse is silent. He can’t change the fact that he got pretty much the best possible introduction to their whole vampire thing and Sous and Faunt basically the worst. But he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t love this. He has never felt better, literally. Physically and emotionally.

If Jehan wanted it too, he’d be like this forever…

That particular thought snuck up on him and Montparnasse is grateful when Claquesous interrupts it, in as much less tense tone of voice than before.

“So, if drinking from their friend was disgusting, what’s it like drinking from Jehan?”

Montparnasse grins.

The rest of the conversation – until Jehan and Fauntleroy suddenly reappear that is – he makes smug use of the opportunity to brag about Jehan as much as he can. Claquesous listen to him with the same grace he has always listened to his romantic exploits. Or perhaps with a little more warmth behind the scoffing grin. Montparnasse decides _not_ to ask him what he was worried about just now. Because he can guess and now it’s in his head too.

Luckily, by the time the other two join them, they are both way too buzzed to still be dwelling on their own mortality. Fauntleroy sits down on Claquesous’ other side, immediately tucking against him, and Montparnasse just catches the smile on Jehan’s face before they sit down on his lap. He wraps both his arms around them and hides his face against their side with a drunken smile.

\---

Jehan sees the world through a shining haze of red, gazing up at Montparnasse as their head rests in his lap. He’s smiling, fond lights dancing in his eyes, and his left wrist is pressed gently to their mouth. The fingers of his other hand rake lazily through their hair, making the tenderness that Jehan is drinking down with each swallow nearly too overwhelming.

It’s so much. Montparnasse is so wonderfully much. And right now it’s like they are feeling their entire existence together all at once. As if the taste of him is blending together with the music playing on their record player, the softness of the couch beneath them, the silk rustle of his shirt, his fingers in their hair, the smile in his eyes.

They used to think Montparnasse tasted scarlet, but in this moment he tastes crimson.

Slowly, without making a sound, Jehan stops drinking. Their eyes close for a moment, not from drowsiness, but from the sweetness of it all, and they gently lick the wound clean before they let their mouth close.

Montparnasse lifts his wrist away from their face. “Had your fill, Vogeltje?”

Jehan looks up into his twinkling eyes. “Never,” they sigh.

He hums fondly at them and wipes his wrist on the sleeve of his other arm before resting his left hand on their stomach. Montparnasse has not gotten less dressy, but he _has_ gotten a little less particular about his clothes.

Jehan sighs again, enjoying his continued petting. They’re getting better at pacing themselves. The number of times Jehan has had to give Musichetta a rather nervous call about how much exactly is _too_ much is rapidly approaching zero. It’s good.

It’s wonderful.

It’s just… There is always the need to be careful. Careful not to feed him too much. Careful not to take too much. It never really leaves Jehan’s mind. And it shouldn’t. They just wish it could.

But that’s horribly selfish of them, isn’t it.

They smile up at Montparnasse. It doesn’t matter. They will be careful, for decades and decades. Whatever it takes to be with him.

The distinct sound of Grantaire unlocking the front door rouses both of them from their thoughts.

“Is my mouth clean?” they mutter.

“Close enough,” Montparnasse smiles, quickly checking his wrist.

Grantaire comes in with his usual noise, immediately crossing the room to turn up the music, before making his way over to the couch. Jehan has absolutely no intention of moving out of Montparnasse’s lap, but they pull up their legs to give him space to sit.

He does, but not before inhaling sharply and breathing out on a snort.

“Hi R,” Montparnasse smirks.

“You need to work on your fake innocence,” Grantaire informs him.

“We don’t need to work on anything,” Jehan sighs smugly and they happily prop their feet up on Grantaire’ s knees.

“Mockery and contempt,” Grantaire laments, squeezing their ankles. “In my own _home_.”

“Maybe you were interrupting,” Montparnasse drawls, leaning back comfortably on the couch.

“In my own _home_ ,” Grantaire repeats, swatting at the side of Parnasse’s head with what looks to be an envelope. “Never mind the gifts I come bearing.”

Jehan lifts their head up off Montparnasse’s leg a little. “Gifts? What’s in that envelope?”

“ _Now_ they take an interest,” Grantaire sighs. “You know, it really _is_ nice guys who finish last.”

Montparnasse does not just roll his eyes, but his whole head and Jehan smiles as he gives them a small push under their shoulder blades to help them get up without them even asking. They sit up, leaning towards Grantaire.

“That only works on Enj, you know,” they tease, and they press a nuzzling kiss to his cheek.

Grantaire grins and kisses them back, putting the envelope in their hand. “From Alexandre,” he says. “He sent it to Courf instead of here, again.”

“Oh _finally_!” They fall back onto Montparnasse’s lap, eagerly tearing the letter out of the envelope. They haven’t heard anything from Alexandre in _ages_.

Above them one of their favourite sounds, Montparnasse and Grantaire in relaxed conversation, starts to mix with the music to fill their ears, but for once Jehan has no attention to spare. Because Alexandre’s letter does not start with gossip, or demands of affection, or even an account of his wardrobe. It starts with a single, glorious sentence:

“Mon cher Jehan, it seems that my new lodgings come with a telephone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I love them all so much.
> 
> Dutch 101:
> 
> “Uitzonderingen daargelaten” is another Dutch expression I often miss. It basically means “Except for a few exceptions.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have been asking to see more of Alexandre ever since Fangs and Flower Power, well, here he is. Sort of~

Jehan has been on the phone with their sire for at least an _hour_. Montparnasse tried to give them their privacy, but this is only a studio after all and he refuses to hang around outside. Those things considered it doesn’t really matter if he’s on the couch on the other side of the room or with them on the bed and the bed is way more comfortable. Jehan doesn’t seem to mind anyway. If anything they’re more than willing to apologetically stroke his hair every now and again. They didn’t mean to have this conversation while they were over at his, but the first couple times they tried to call Alexandre he didn’t pick up. And then he suddenly called them back.

It’s adorable how excited they were to hear his voice. They still sound over the moon to be talking to him. It makes it very hard for Montparnasse not to listen in. He’s always been curious about their sire. It had taken him a while to even learn his name, because Jehan never talked about it. Recently Montparnasse has learned that this is not because of hurt feelings or any sort of dislike, however, not at all. Alexandre – perhaps it’s not too surprising their sire turned out to be French – seems to have a rather difficult position in Jehan’s friend group. He isn’t part of the ABC and as far as Montparnasse understands Courf and Grantaire are the only ones that like him.

Grantaire’s explanation that Alexandre “flirts with everyone and ignores Enj, cause he can’t deal with people that dislike him”, while hilarious, had not nearly enough to satisfy Montparnasse’s curiosity. Now, after nearly an hour of hearing vague, tinny noises coming from Jehan’s phone while they barely speak he can hazard a pretty good guess as to Alexandre’s first personal failing. The guy must be pretty full of himself.

-

It’s definitely one of the perks of vampirism, not having to worry about restricted blood flow or stiff limbs. Jehan has been comfortably draped across the bed with their phone to their ear in nearly the exact same position for almost an hour now. Every now and again they reach out to brush their fingers through Montparnasse’s hair, who is reading something on his phone, just within their reach.

It is so good to hear Alexandre’s voice again. They know it’s silly to be missing him already, he came for a visit only two years ago, but they do. So they really don’t mind that they haven’t been able to get a word in edgeways the past hour. That’s just what he’s like.

“Oh!” Alexandre cries, interrupting himself halfway through a very detailed description of his current dwelling, which he assures them is the last genuinely stylish house left in all of Italy. “You have a new sibling! Darling girl. Pretty as a frost flower. And I did not make the same mistake as with you, I have a picture this time. You must meet her some day.”

Jehan smiles at that. They have never met any of Alexandre’s other fledglings and by now they’re pretty sure they never will. Alexandre tends to leave them scattered across the globe, living their unlives with as much creative flourish as he’s been able to distil in them.

“Is she with you now?” they ask pleasantly.

“Ah, no, she’s gone out hunting,” Alexandre replies. He makes a fond noise. “What about you, mon petit? Anything new and exciting going on in dear Amstredamme?”

Jehan fights the flurry of nerves in their stomach down and keeps their voice steady. “I have a new partner, an ally.”

“You have what?” His laughing response makes for a jarring contrast with the gentle way Montparnasse lifts his head up for a moment to flash a grin at them.

“A ward, Alexandre,” they say, choosing not to laugh along with him. “I’ve taken a ward.”

There’s a single moment of startled silence on the other end of the line and then another laugh. “What’s this!” Alexandre sounds positively delighted. “I didn’t raise you to _play_ with your food, did I?

Jehan gulps. “That not—!” they splutter and Alexandre bursts out laughing.

“Darling! Darling! Don’t make it so easy. Oh I wish I could see your dear face right now. I remember when your heart still beat, you’d blush at absolutely everything.”

Montparnasse is looking at them very curiously and that’s doing nothing for their embarrassment. Jehan scrabbles to sit a bit more upright and huffs softly.

“It’s the single thing I might feel sorry for,” Alexandre says fondly. “I took away such a lovely blush…” He lets out an affected sigh and then immediately an encouraging hum. “But tell me! My word. I want to hear _all_ about him, mon chou. Or her, of course, but you’ve always had a weakness for pretty boys with beating hearts, haven’t you.”

It doesn’t matter that there is no blood to rush to their cheeks, the flustered sensation is there all the same. “Well, he _is_ ,” they mutter.

“Of course he is!” Alexandre crows. “Tell me more.”

By now Montparnasse has put his phone away and is looking at them with a grin on his face and his chin propped up on his fist. The amused glint in his eye is not at all helpful. Jehan gives him a scolding push, which does absolutely nothing to change his attitude.

“His name is Montparnasse,” they say, deliberately looking away from Parnasse’s laughing expression. “He’s…” They glance back at him. “He’s good to me. And we’re good together.”

Montparnasse’s grin softens.

“We dated for a while, so we were certain,” Jehan says softly, too focussed on the way Montparnasse’s expression is changing to even notice how uncharacteristically quiet and attentive Alexandre is right now. “I’m so glad we get to be together.”

Silently Montparnasse grabs their hand and pulls it towards him, pressing a kiss to the flat of their knuckles.

Jehan smiles.

“ _Well_.” Alexandre’s voice, warm and pleased, pushes them back into the present.

“Anything else you needed to know?” they tease, confident in their joy.

“Mon chou, I could hear you talk like that for days,” he says, and even if Jehan knows that’s not true the sentiment is still sweet. “But I think you’ve made your feelings quite clear. Well done. And to your young man. Montparnasse, was it? A very good name.”

Jehan swallows around the lump of happiness in their throat. “Thank you.”

“I am truly happy for you, Jehan, truly.”

“Thank y—”

“Whenever you want me to come over and turn him just let me know.”

Jehan chokes on their half-spoken sentence. “ _What_.”

“Darling,” Alexandre laughs. “I didn’t mean to shock you. I just thought I’d offer.”

It takes Jehan all their self-control not to allow their gaze to dart anxiously to Montparnasse. He can’t have heard. It’s _fine_. “Why- why would you— I don’t want you to!” they hiss.

Clearly their attempt at not sounding _too_ upset is far too successful, because Alexandre merely chuckles. “My, my, is that a hint of possessiveness I hear? _Lovely_. Well if he’s as handsome as you say he is, I won’t pretend not to enjoy it, but surely you trust me enough to know that that is not the point.”

“I…I…” Jehan shuts their mouth, an odd tension stretching through their shoulders. Alexandre has no _right_.

“It was merely an offer, darling,” he continues lightly. “You sound very serious about him and I highly doubt the moralising trio will give you permission to turn him any time soon…”

Their shock and embarrassment gives way to instant indignation. “Permission?” they echo. “The ABC doesn’t rule the city like in the olden days in France,” they snap. “I don’t need anyone’s _permission_ to be with Parnasse but his!”

There is a terrible silence in which there is nothing on the other end of the line but the soft fuzz of background static and a very concerned look from Montparnasse. Jehan looks back at him unhappily and tries to force a reassuring smile.

“Now I’ve upset you,” Alexandre says in dismay. “Don’t be upset with me, mon petit, you know I can’t bear it.”

Jehan shifts uncomfortably. “Well don’t…don’t just say things like that.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Jehan, I am. But will you allow me to explain?”

With a sigh they make a soft, reluctant noise of agreement.

-

Whatever turn the conversation just took it wasn’t good. Montparnasse wishes he could hear, but he can hardly demand that Jehan put their phone on speaker just because they look so uncomfortable. They keep glancing at him though and even though they sound calmer than they did a moment ago, Montparnasse eventually gestures questioningly towards the door. Jehan vehemently shakes their head though and reach out pleadingly until he takes their hand.

They’re listening in silence again, shoulders defensively shrugged up and a slight frown on their face, but at least they don’t seem upset like a moment ago. After a while they relax again and while the frown never quite leaves their face, they allow Montparnasse to quietly pull them against him. They hum softly in response to Alexandre a couple more times before they say with a quiet sigh:

“Yes, okay. No, you can call me tomorrow, that’s fine.”

Montparnasse gives their waist a comforting squeeze. Doesn’t sound like their conversation ended as well as it began.

“I will,” Jehan hums, distractedly stroking his arm in response. “Yes.”

Their voice softens, tired fondness bleeding through.

“Je vous aime aussi.”

They push their phone away from them after they hang up, but slowly, dejected rather than angry.

“You okay?” Montparnasse asks, his feelings towards Alexandre suddenly a lot less enthusiastic.

“Yes.” Jehan snuggles further into him.

Montparnasse wonders what would be best, prying a little or dropping the subject. “Did he not— Was his reaction not what you expected?” Because he can’t help but guess that whatever Alexandre had said that upset Jehan so much must have been about him.

“No, he— I—” Jehan glances up at him and Montparnasse realises with shock that there is something scared in their expression.

“Hey, hey…” He shifts to meet their gaze more fully. “You don’t have to say, but you _can_ tell me. I’m not gonna be offended or something.”

Jehan’s eyes are round and concerned.

“Okay, fair,” he says, as amusingly as possible. “If he said anything unflattering about me, I’m going to be a _whole_ lot offended.”

A vague smile flickers on their face.

“But I won’t be upset,” he finishes gently. “Definitely not with you.”

Jehan sighs, pulling out of his embrace, but staying close. “He…” Their cast their eyes down. “He offered to turn you.”

Montparnasse’s heart makes a frantic skip. “…what?”

Their eyes snap back up to his face. “I know you don’t want that! It’s just he- he said it would make us the most equal. Because he could make you just as strong as I am. I didn’t not want to tell you but I also don’t want you to think I want you to do that because I don’t, if you ever do want that we can talk about it then and we don’t have to now!”

Montparnasse doesn’t interrupt them, his head is too full to do so anyway. But when their frantic run-on sentence gives way to a tense silence, he tries. “…I think about that a lot actually.”

Jehan’s eyes widen. “You do?”

“Kind of hard not to.” He looks at them, one hand coming to rest on their thigh. “Bit…soon, maybe, but—”

“Oh no!” Jehan says hastily, their whole body turning towards him. “I think about it too! I wish… I wish it wasn’t…”

“That it wasn’t permanent?”

Jehan nods.

Yeah, he wishes that too. But really, when he thinks of Jehan, Montparnasse doesn’t think he’d ever regret it. Not for a second. And the thought of Jehan thinking about this too… He grins, pulling them back into his arms again, pressing a kiss to their cold cheek.

They laugh uncertainly, but happily snuggle against him again. “Have you really…would you really consider it?”

Montparnasse grins. “I’d do more than just consider it.”

Jehan makes an endeared sound and buries their face against his chest for a moment.

“Stay with you…never grow older…”

“It’s not just that, though,” Jehan mumbles. “And it’s not only the blood… No more sunlight, no more selfies, no more food, no more sex.”

“Well that last one’s bullshit,” he says bluntly.

Jehan laughs. “Okay, _maybe_.”

Montparnasse nuzzles against their neck and imagines, in very vivid detail, what it would be like to sink his own fangs into Jehan.

Their mind was probably similarly occupied, because when he lifts up his head again they look rather flustered. 

“Getting a little distracted, Vogeltje?”

Jehan makes a weak little sound, clinging to him a little more. “I would miss your heartbeat, your warmth…” Their eyes met his, big and dark. “But you’d look _really_ fine with a pair of fangs.”

Montparnasse grins. “Damn right I would.”

Jehan grins back and their fangs gleam. For as long as he can stand not to be kissing them at least.

“That equality thing, is that true?” he asks, when he has breath left over to speak again.

“I suppose, yes,” they muse. “Alexandre could make you exactly as strong as I am.” They snort softly through their nose. “He’s turned lots of people too, knows what he’s doing for sure.”

Montparnasse quite likes that idea. It sounds oddly fitting, to be turned by the same person that made Jehan this way. There is something odd about Jehan’s expression though. Something uncomfortable. “What is it?”

“I…” They fidget against him. “I don’t…I don’t like the idea of him…”

A grin twitches onto his face. Jehan is always _so_ apologetic of their possessiveness of their affection. And he absolutely loves it. “You don’t like the idea of him turning me.”

Jehan’s nose wrinkles and Montparnasse’s grin widens.

“You don’t like the idea of smelling someone else’s blood on me…”

This time they make a huffing little sound and refuse to look at him.

Montparnasse lets out a teasing chuckle. “Whatever will we do when – if – I do get turned? We’ll both have to drink elsewhere.”

“ _Not_ true…” Jehan says, a slight growl slipping into their voice. “I could feed exclusively on you. That’s what Enj does.” Their arms wind around his neck. “Or…I could be the _only_ one to feed you. Ever.”

Montparnasse gives in to the eager twisting in his middle and kisses them again, allowing Jeahn to rock their weight into him until he’s lying on his back with them on top of him.

A faraway, rational part of his brain considers that at least one of them will have to feed on animal or human blood from elsewhere. That’s going to take some figuring out. But right now that doesn’t matter. Right now Jehan is kissing him with visions of making him theirs on their mind.

They whisper a breathless “I love you” when they break out of the kiss and Montparnasse purrs at them. “En ik hou van jou.”

He likes using the little Dutch that Jehan understands, they always look so pleased with themself. He looks up at them, their hair tumbling towards his face like a curtain of red.

“It might…” Jehan hesitates. “It might be a good idea, though. Alexandre’s offer.”

“Mm,” Montparnasse nods. He reaches up to untuck one lock from where it’s gotten caught behind their ear and smooths the silky cascade of their hair. “Something to consider.”

“Yes,” they say, sounding warm and faintly relieved. “When we- later.”

“Later,” he agrees. He has no doubts about Jehan. None. But there are other things to wait for. “I’d probably want to wait until after surgery. Don’t know how that works for vampires, but if my body’s gonna freeze in place. You know.”

Jehan nods, their expression open and serious. “We should ask Ferre about that.”

“Mm, not the medically inclined trio?” he asks, smiling at their immediate agreement.

“Ferre is our history buff,” they say. “Boss told me that he and Joly have been asking around, find other allies that are or have been on hormones. Difficult to find out, it seems. I mean, that makes sense, it’s nobody’s business.”

Montparnasse listens to them, fond, and slightly distracted by how the minute changes of their expression flicker across their face as they lean over him.

“But surgeries are different. Those have to be more common. Ferre will know something about it for sure.”

“I could ask him about it during the next meeting,” Montparnasse says, resting his hands on Jehan’s hips. “Or at that party you keep not-so-subtly mentioning.”

“I do not!” Jehan splutters. “Courf _made_ me-” They pull a face. “And, okay, it’d be sweet if you were there.”

“Well, because you ask so nicely…”

-

There is too much happiness trapped inside their chest to put into words, so Jehan lets themself collapse on top of Montparnasse, hugging him as tightly as they dare. He laughs, the sound muffled against their shoulder and they make a blissful sound is response. He wants…he wants to stay with them. Be with them. Be _like_ them. He _does_.

They hold him a little tighter and Montparnasse hugs back, until he gives them a familiar little squeeze and Jehan lets go to allow him to breathe. They roll off him, coming to lie next to him on their side. “I’m—” They tip forward to hide their face against his arm. “Thank you for coming with me to the party.”

Montparnasse makes a fond noise. “I should probably come along more often.” For a moment he looks at them, almost smiling, and then his expression turns thoughtful. “You know…that stuff Enjolras talks about…”

Jehan blinks at him in surprise and Montparnasse grimaces slightly.

“Integration,” he clarifies. “Humans and vampires together… Probably won’t work. But it does sound kind of nice.”

They nod silently, waiting to see if he has more to say. Montparnasse rarely talks about it, but he has mentioned once or twice that it feels like living two lives, being with them. The secrecy isn’t hard for him, but navigating between both of their friends is.

“Seems dumb, you know, to keep pretending it’s all separate while it’s not.”

“Yeah,” Jehan smiles faintly. “You put an end to that.”

Montparnasse pulls a face. “I’m not taking all the blame, Pontmercy did just as much damage as me.”

They laugh softly. “I was thinking more along the lines of credit, not blame.”

“Ah,” he grins. “Well I have no problem with _that_.”

Jehan giggles, bumping against him. It is pretty silly by now. And it could be so good, everyone together. They know it could be.

“Just…if we’re gonna live like this for a while.”

Parnasse doesn’t sound sad, just thoughtful, and Jehan has to swallow an odd sort of emotion. Live like this for a while… That’s what they’re doing, isn’t it. Making a life. Together.

They sigh. “I’d honestly love it if we could mingle more.”

“Really?” Montparnasse looks pleasantly surprised, his eyes suddenly bright and attentive.

“Of course!” They offer him a weak smile. “But I don’t think Faunt and Sous would appreciate it very much if we dragged them along to Courf’s party.”

Montparnasse’s face slowly relaxes into a grin. “No, you’re right. They’re not there yet.” The glint in his eyes gets just a little edge to it. “…but I know someone who’s dying to meet some of your friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only an epilogue left! It's been a long time coming <3
> 
> Dutch 101:
> 
> “Amstredamme” is just an old version of the name Amsterdam, with a slightly more French accent to it.
> 
> “Je vous aime aussi,” means “I love you too.” The respectful version, because as my sister rightfully pointed out, Alexandre would be the kind of person to still use "vous" even among intimates.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in the last part of this series and I'm actually quite emotional about it. Thank you very much for coming along for the ride <3

Jehan knows it’s absolutely no use to keep staring at their phone, it won’t make Parnasse and Éponine arrive any faster, but they’re _nervous_. Judging from Montparnasse’s texts he thinks all this is going to be hilarious, but Jehan would be grateful to have this over with. Which is rather a shame, actually, because it’s turning out to be a very good party.

With all their beating hearts, Joly, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac’s mistresses are filling the room with a kind of crowded warmth that they don’t often get the opportunity to bask in and everything is full of Courf’s cheerful hospitality.

“Jehan, what’s wrong?”

Guiltily they stuff their phone back into their pocket and spin round to smile reassuringly at Enjolras. He’s looking at them rather worriedly, which is quite a feat, considering that he’s currently both seated on Grantaire’s lap and mostly wrapped around his neck. The two of them have been so clingy Jehan strongly suspects they have been drinking before they arrived.

“Afraid Parnasse will cancel on you?” Grantaire hums.

“Ehm, no, it’s not that…” They are very convinced Parnasse is coming. Certain, actually. They just hope that—

“Oh! Come in, come in! You must be Marius’ friend. He just texted he’s running a little late, but-”

Jehan whirls around once again and this time they are just in time to see Courfeyrac hurry to keep up with Éponine as she barges straight into the living room.

“Right. Which one of you is the guy that knows shit?”

Behind her, Montparnasse is standing in the doorway with a grin wide enough to split his face. Jehan swallows down another wave of nerves, all their friends are staring in surprise.

“I’m sorry?” Courfeyrac says nervously. “We—”

“The one that told Marius he _wasn’t dead_ on the evening he _died_ ,” Éponine demands.

“Ah,” Ferre clears his throat on the other end of the room. “That would be me.” He gets to his feet. “I admit that may have been a little—”

“Explain it to me.”

Ferre blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Explain it to me,” she repeats. “I don’t want to believe in any of this shit, but if it’s real someone better explain to me _how_.”

The startled surprise of Ferre’s face fades into genuine appreciation. “Very well,” he says. “If you would, Miss…?”

“Éponine,” she says, firm enough to betray some significant nerves, and she follows Combeferre to a quiet corner of the room. Away from where he had been sitting with Joly and Bossuet, who both look _extremely_ impressed.

Courfeyrac – and Jehan means this in the most affectionate way possible – reminds them a little of a surprised cockerel, donned out in finery and surrounded by his hens as he is. But as soon as he can tell that Éponine is not here to make trouble and is instead intent on making Combeferre do what he loves best: loudly explain and speculate on the world around him, he soon calms down. In fact, it isn’t long before he’s interrogating Montparnasse about Éponine with a delighted sort of curiosity that Jehan knows springs solely from a desire to befriend her as fast as possible.

And while Montparnasse might have his reservations about _that_ particular scheme, he seems pretty happy with how things are turning out. Jehan certainly is.

“Would you look at all that integration going on,” Grantaire hums in their ear a little while later when he manages to catch them as they walk by. He wraps his arms around their waist and leans his head on their shoulder in a movement that by now is decades old muscle memory. “Our elders would be disgusted with us.”

Jehan grins, placing their hands on top of Grantaire’s wrists where they are crossed across their stomach. They glance at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who are now in conversation with both Éponine and Montparnasse, and smile. “They don’t look too disgusted to me.”

Grantaire makes a soft, happy noise of agreement that Jehan feels a _deep_ affection for and then a curious hum, which makes them look up again.

Enjolras is walking over to join the other four.

-

If he didn’t like her so much Montparnasse would be calling Éponine out on the fact that she’s going way overboard with this whole understanding vampires thing. Her bookishness is showing. It makes him a little uncomfortable actually. Combeferre is saying a lot of shit that not only makes very little sense, but also makes this whole enticing mystery thing that vampires have going on feel more like a series of clinical complications.

There’s a movement of shining blond in the corner of his eye and Enjolras politely clears his throat. Instead of moving over to make room for him on the couch, Montparnasse gets up. He wasn’t really listening anymore anyway, or trying to.

But Enjolras doesn’t sit down, he comes to stand next to him.

Montparnasse waits.

“It’s good to have your friend here,” Enjolras says after a moment’s hesitation. “Good to have humans – non-blood dependants – here.”

“You should tell her that,” Montparnasse hums. This is certainly not the first time he’s had a private conversation in Enjolras since he drank from him, but it doesn’t happen too often. The strange thing is that even though there’s nothing of the intoxicated feeling left, the _memory_ of it is still with him.

Enjolras looks at him with his usual brand of intense sincerity. “I will. But you invited her, so I wanted to thank you too.”

Right. Jehan had told him that Enjolras really wants this. Humans and vampires and allies all together. He nods in acknowledgment and spares a sideways glance for Éponine. She’s sketching some sort of diagram on a piece of paper from some of Ferre’s notes that looks like it’s at least a hundred years old for an increasingly fascinated Combeferre.

“I have a feeling Ponine will have some more invitations to issue, if you let her,” he remarks. He looks back at Enjolras. “…and maybe I will too. Eventually.”

\---

It’s a fine, fair-weather evening and Montparnasse is just about ready to kiss Musichetta out of pure gratitude.

She has stationed herself in a chair near the narrow sofa where Claquesous is seated with Fauntleroy plastered to his side, and is talking of music, fashion and movie history without a single reference to vampirism. Except for the fact that she knows just about too much about all three of course.

Joly had contented himself with attentively asking whether Faunt drank in company – they said no – while Bossuet offered Sous a beer and had one himself. Now the two of them are showing themselves to their absolute best advantage: sitting on each other’s laps and listening to Chetta like a pair of crushing high schoolers.

Montparnasse didn’t trust himself to drink tonight, too afraid he might end up having to drag Sous and Faunt out of here, but it seems his fears were unfounded. By the time Éponine arrives, with apologies for being late, Fauntleroy is eagerly questioning Musichetta on Italian cinema and Sous is sitting in a way that by his standards is pretty much completely relaxed.

“This is going well!” Jehan whispers in his ear as Éponine settles down next to Bossuet to criticize his choice of craft beer.

“De wonderen zijn de wereld nog niet uit,” he mutters under his breath, but he follows it up with an affectionate squeeze of their waist. “Yes,” he says softly. “Really well.”

“You’re _shitting_ me,” Fauntleroy’s voice suddenly rises above all others and Montparnasse sees them stare at Musichetta with a nearly gaping mouth. “Mario Bava was a _vampire_?”

“Is, I hope.”

“ _He’s still alive?_ ”

Musichetta smiles. “He suffered a lot of sun sickness during his career. He was a weakblood like you, actually.”

Montparnasse has no idea who they’re talking about, but Sous seems to understand the significance, because he’s looking at Faunt rather worriedly. They’re clearly struggling with the fact that someone who Montparnasse presumes is one of their movie heroes, turned out to be a vampire.

They shift towards Chetta a little and then back against Sous again. “Was he…”

“Very respectful,” Chetta assures them. “Nice guy, when he wasn’t too lost in his work. “

Fauntleroy makes very curious sound. “You actually met him?” they half-whisper.

“Mm, went out with him a couple times. Or rather, my – hm – friend did. He preferred feeding on other vampires.” She gives Faunt a fanged grin. “Italians. And, you know, it was the sixties.”

A spark snaps in Fauntleroy’s eyes. “…that is so _cool_.”

Claquesous actually smiles and Montparnasse decides to bury his face in Jehan’s neck to hide how damn pleased he is. Jehan gives a delighted squeeze in his shoulders in response.

“Can I get some subtitles?” Éponine requests. “Who the hell is Mario Brava?”

Both Fauntleroy and Musichetta spit out horrified gasps.

-

When they finally leave Jehan has far more information on classic Italian horror movies than they thought they were every going to amass in their unlife.

“ _Not_ how I thought this night was going to end,” Montparnasse hums beside them.

“Me neither,” they breathe out on a laugh. They’re _so_ happy it went this well. It feels like a weight has been slowly slipping off their shoulders and has finally fallen away.

Montparnasse looks happy too. He’s glancing up at the sky, blindly reaching for their hand. They entwine their fingers with his.

“Also…” he muses. “A _much_ longer visit than I was expecting.” He tugs on their arm, suddenly steering them into an alley. “Come on.”

“What?” Jehan laughs, following willingly.

“Up here.”

He lets go of them to grab hold of one of the drainpipes running up the wall and for a moment Jehan stands back and watches him climb, their fangs glinting unguardedly in the faint streetlight as they smile. Parnasse is fast and graceful. Like he’s definitely done this before.

They go after him when he has reached the second story of the house, clambering up the brickwork as silently as they can. Jehan reaches the roof only a few moments after him, but he still turns around to pull them up over the edge. And then straight into this arms.

“Gotcha,” he grins.

Jehan presses closer, laughing up at him softly. “And now what?”

He presses a kiss on their lips by way of an answer and by the time either of them feel like talking again they have sat down with a partition of the roof to their backs and the nightly Amsterdam skyline spread out all around them.

Montparnasse’s skin is warm against theirs and his breath is just a little quickened now. He leans back against the slanted roof with a satisfied smirk.

“Was that all you wanted?” they tease, cuddling up against him.

“It’s a start,” he grins.

They laugh along with the joy bubbling in their chest. “Why here?” they demand.

Montparnasse shrugs, ghosting a kiss against their temple before looking out across the town again. “Always liked climbing. And it’s a whole lot less effort now.” He grins. “Look, Vogeltje, if I get to date a pretty vampire I’m gonna act the part.”

Jehan laughs again and buries their face against his chest for a moment. They’re all kinds of warm. Warm from Parnasse’s embrace, warm from the sparks dancing in their chest, warm from the envelope burning a hole in their jacket pocket.

-

Montparnasse doesn’t object when Jehan pushes away a bit to sit more upright, but he does fully intend to pull them back in again. He doesn’t get the chance though. Jehan fumbles with their jacket, fishing something out of the inside pocket and looks up at him with one of their searching expressions.

“Alexandre sent me something,” they murmur.

Montparnasse can see now that it’s an envelope they’re holding and he wonders why they brought it. Jehan did read him some bits of Alexandre’s last letter, but he got the impression that was mostly because it contained some very clumsy quasi-apologies vaguely directed towards him. “Oh?”

Jehan opens the envelope and to his surprise they don’t take out a sheet of paper, but a folded piece of cloth. They let the envelope fall into their lap and fold the piece of cloth open on their palm.

Montparnasse blinks at the shimmer in the dim light.

It’s a ring. Gold and black, with what must be a lock of red hair coiled behind a glass setting.

“It’s from the turn of the nineteenth century,” Jehan says quietly. “The ring, I mean.” They hold it out to him, tilting it so what little light there is glints on the glass displaying the lock of hair. “That’s from when I was still alive.”

There’s something eerie about it, but it’s beautiful. And dramatic. Montparnasse glances past the ring, at their face, and reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind their ear. “It wouldn’t grow back now, would it?”

“No…” They glance up at him. “Do you like it? To keep, I mean.”

It’s not quite a diamond, but Montparnasse still feels a jolt in his stomach. “Don’t you want it?”

“You don’t keep a lock of your _own_ hair,” Jehan smiles.

He huffs. “Sorry for not knowing the correct Victorian customs.”

“Regency,” they correct, trying and failing not to grin.

Montparnasse pulls a face at them and hides the rest of his confused happiness by carefully taking the ring from them and slipping it onto his middle finger. It’s too large to fit his ring finger and even now it’s anything but subtle on his slender hands. But then again, he doesn’t get to keep a picture of them on his phone like other people do.

He holds up his hand. “I like it.”

He also likes the idea that this used to be Alexandre’s… Now it’s his.

Jehan almost seems to glow a little and Montparnasse looks at them in silence for a long moment. A not so very distant part of his mind is wondering what Jehan’s opinion on diamonds would be.

But instead of saying any of that out loud just yet he chooses something else.

“If Sanquin agrees to help Ferre look for trans vampires, do you think we’ll find any?”

“No idea,” Jehan hums. “I suppose that depends on whether they want to be found.”

Montparnasse nods. It’d be nice to have someone in the same position to talk to. Might speed things up.

“You know what, though?” Jehan says suddenly, their dark eyes moving from the sky to the ring to his face. “You know what. I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

That’s what he’s been saying for ages, but to hear the same confident optimism from Jehan’s mouth is making something warm twist around Montparnasse’s chest. “No?”

“No. The blood freezes your body in place, doesn’t it? Once you’re in a place, physically, where you want to be, I think it would be safe.”

Montparnasse hums. That will probably be a while, truly being where he wants to be. Then again, as far as places to be go, here and now isn’t half bad. He presses a kiss to the corner of Jehan’s mouth and they sigh a little, one of their hands grabbing hold of his jacket.

“Not that we- that you’d have to,” they add. “But—”

Montparnase kisses them again, properly this time and he doesn’t stop until that last bit of apprehensiveness has left them.

“May take some time,” he murmurs and Jehan looks up at him with the night sky in their eyes. “But we have plenty of that, don’t we, Vogeltje?”

Jehan smiles. “All the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mario Bava was the "Master of Italian Horror", active from the late fifties to the late seventies. He was the cinematographer and director of “I Vampiri”, the first Italian horror film of the sound era, which I regrettably have not seen.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this story and possibly the whole series. Now it's finally Finished, I'd love to hear what you thought, it always makes me so happy to get feedback. Extra thanks to all of you who left comments and kudo's a long the way <3
> 
> Also my unending gratitude to my darling sister and beta who contributed so much to this series and who wrote a piece of her own all about Marius that gives a bit more background! It's called "Blood and Tragic Brooding" and is linked as an associate work at the end of this fic ^^
> 
> Dutch 101:
> 
> “De wonderen zijn de wereld nog niet uit.” Is a Dutch expression that ranges from sarcastic to genuinely surprised but in a slightly snarky way that means literally means “there are still miracles on this earth” but would translate more to “colour me surprised”.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blood and Tragic Brooding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496374) by [BadassIndustries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/pseuds/BadassIndustries)




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